


Ice

by callmejude



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Biting, Blood, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Boot Worship, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Age of Consent, Canon-Typical Misogyny, Canonical Character Death, Choking, Come Eating, Confusing amalgamation of book and show canon, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Slut Shaming, Consensual Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Degradation, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Dom/sub, Dry Humping, Epilogue, Facials, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Height Kink, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knifeplay, Late Night Conversations, Limit Violation, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manhandling, Masturbation, Miscommunication, Orders, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Denial, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, Pain Kink, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Ramsay is his own warning, Romantic Scarification, Sadism, Sexual Tension, Shame kink, Slapping, Slow Romance, Spooning, Strangulation, Subdrop, Subspace, Tenderness, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Verbal Abuse, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, canon-typical religious guilt, violent sex dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-03 12:32:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13341339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude
Summary: As Theon grows, he begins to question his place in the Stark family. Especially in regards to the heir of Winterfell.





	1. Chapter 1

Robb is fifteen the first year he grows taller than Theon. Robb is not the one to notice first. It’s possible that if Theon hadn’t been so petulant about tilting his chin to look someone younger in the eye, he may not have noticed at all. Even at fifteen, Robb prefers acting as a lord would. He doesn’t wish to tease Theon at all for his insecurity, but when Theon makes it so easy, it’s hard for Robb to resist.

When none of the adults are around, he pretends to lift things past Theon’s reach, and grins if he actually manages to keep them away.

“You’re hardly taller than me.”

“I am, still.”

The tension causes them to roughhouse more often and with more venom than they did as children, but Robb’s daily sword practice with Ser Rodrik makes him a closer match to Theon in strength, as well. 

One afternoon, tousling in the summer snows after sword practice, Robb manages to knock Theon’s knees out from under him and pin his back into the snow. He doesn’t push hard, but the air leaves Theon’s lungs all at once, and heat bursts over his face as Robb grins down at him.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Greyjoy,” Robb teases him, getting to his feet. “I’m sure you’ll catch up eventually.”

Humiliated, Theon kicks Robb’s shin hard enough to make him fall and sprints to the castle without looking back.

That night, Theon dreams of Robb holding him down, naked and shivering against Lord Stark’s stone execution block. He can see the greatsword Ice poised glinting over his throat, but its wielder is cast in shadow.

“Robb,” he whispers, “Please —” 

Robb is grinning, but says nothing, only staring down at him. Theon blinks, and suddenly the dream shifts and it’s Robb gripping the hilt of Ice in both hands, and Theon isn’t being held down at all. Instead, he lies spread on the slab as if by choice.

“Robb —” he starts, voice pleading, but Robb only sends the sword swinging, and Theon wakes up with a jolt. 

Chest heaving, doused in sweat, it takes Theon a moment to realize he’s hard under his wolfskins. Confused and terrified, he doesn’t touch himself, and can’t look Robb in the eye for days afterward.

Everyone notices when Theon is in a sour mood. His deamour with the younger Stark children is not nearly as close and gentle as it is with Robb at the best of times, but as the days pass after his disturbing dream his mood only worsens. Feeling as bitter as he is, he goes out of his way to inflict misery on the children. One afternoon he catches Bran climbing on the stable roofs and runs and tells Lady Catelyn. He smirks viciously from behind her when she finds him and scolds him in the courtyard. 

A few days later, during midday meal, Arya asks him for a favour, and Theon snaps at her. 

“I’m your father’s ward, not yours, little wretch.”

She kicks him in the shin and storms off. It’s not long before Jon rounds on him for that, charging into his father’s solar as Theon is finishing his meal. Despite how unsurprised Theon is at his presence, Jon still manages to knock the fork from his hand to get his full attention.

“What is it you called my little sister, exactly, Greyjoy?”

Theon raises his eyebrows. “Half-sister, isn’t it, bastard?”

It stings Jon and he falls silent, struck.

Jon is the easiest to torment. He’s stripped of any of the titles that could cause trouble for their bickering. He’s not a lordling, not even a Stark. Lord Stark is far too busy to intervene his boyish complaints, and Lady Catelyn, if Jon were to be so foolish as to go to her, resents her husband’s bastard enough that she would even take Theon’s side in a dispute just to quiet him. Theon is a lord’s son. Jon has no power over him at all.

“I’ll have your head myself if you ever make her cry again, Greyjoy,” Jon grits. “Do you hear me?”

Theon does feel a little guilty, learning he made little Arya cry, but doesn’t let it show on his face. Instead he only snarls at Jon.

“Try it then, Snow. I’m sure my lord father won’t retaliate. Do you think he’ll worry more about your half-sister’s childish weeping, or the bastard who took his last hier’s life?” His dish still mostly full, but Theon gets to his feet and shoulders past Jon aggressively. “Ser Rodrik will want you in the courtyard soon, Snow,” he adds icily, “Stark’s trueborn heir and I will need our sword practice.”

Jon’s eyes are like steel when he glares at him.

The sun beats down on them in the yard, shining overhead as they run drills. Most of the castle staff has left the yard free for their exercise. Theon usually enjoys drills, but he still feels no better than he had in the solar. He’s tried his best to ignore Robb since his strange dream and the humiliating effect it had on him. He tries to keep his swordplay mostly to Jon, who he can easily best, and has no remorse striking with the flat wooden edge of his practice sword. But Robb cuts in between them often.

It only makes Theon’s mood worse. It’s as if Robb is coming to Jon’s protection, as if the bastard needs any. Jon’s the one who threatened _him._ He manages to parry and strike Robb back a few times, before Ser Rodrik is satisfied with them and declares practice finished for the day.

When Robb suggests going to the hot springs to clean off, Theon feels obligated to do so. His practice leathers are sticky with sweat, and his hands and knees feel stiff. He hopes Robb only means to speak to Theon, but Jon shakes the sweat from his hair and agrees to go before Theon has even said a word.

With that, Theon has no choice but to go. He’s still humiliated at the idea of being around Robb, but he’ll be damned if he lets his cowardice allow Jon more time alone with him.

Jon never lingers long in the hot springs if Theon is around — far less so when Theon is as embittered as he’s been — and he and Robb are quickly left alone. Robb hardly notices, stretched out on the far shallow edge of the spring so that he can lay back with his head above water. Theon bobs awkwardly several feet away. Without Jon here it’s like a weight on Theon’s shoulders. He looks back toward Winterfell, considering leaving as well. It would be far too obvious now, he’s sure. When he turns back, he wonders if Robb can feel his stare if it’s out of the corner of his eye.

“Will nothing fix this unbearable mood you’re in, Greyjoy?”

He doesn’t even look at him, eyes shut in relaxation. Theon wishes he could sink to the bottom of the spring. “How do you mean?”

“I let you win three of our drills today, the sun is shining, and the springs are warm, but you’ve been incurably foul for days. Jon says you’re starting to terrorize the children.”

“ _Let_ me win?” Theon bristles. 

Opening his eyes, Robb grins at him. “You may be handy with a bow, Greyjoy, but when it comes to the blade you know I’m far more skilled than you.”

“Watch yourself, Stark.”

Gleeful to get a rise out of him, Robb swims up to him. “Or you’ll do what?”

There’s no way to answer that. He can’t threaten his warden’s son, even if he wanted to. When they were young, it was only boyhood squabbles, but now, they’re heirs to kingdoms. Now, the things they do matter. Even in jest, if he were to anger Robb, he could have him killed. 

Impossibly, Theon’s cock stirs beneath the water.

“If I beat you so easily in swordplay,” Robb says teasingly, “What do I possibly need to watch for? It’s not as if you’re ever far enough away to strike me with an arrow.”

Panic and embarrassment tangle together and Theon shoves Robb away from him, furious to see him laughing. 

“Shut up.” 

His voice is hoarse, but Robb is only playing, and doesn’t sense how real Theon’s fear shakes him. His heart is racing. He feels lightheaded. There’s an anxious throb between his legs. Robb is still laughing as he swims back into Theon’s space. If he looks down, he’ll see how hard he is, through the clear water. Scowling, Theon kicks back to keep their distance the same.

“Oh, come now, Greyjoy, there’s plenty you’re better at still,” Robb japes. “Holding your breath, for one.”

Suddenly, strong hands shove hard on Theon’s shoulders and the water spills over his head. There’s a split second of disorientation before he can hear Robb’s garbled laugh from above the water. Theon kicks his legs against the bottom and shoots back up to fill his lungs with air and swing his arm around to splash warm water into Robb’s face.

“You ass,” he snaps, but he’s still too breathless for it to have any venom. Robb giggles, and Theon’s heart trips against his ribs. Water drips from Robb’s coppery hair and slides down his neck, and Theon’s eyes follow automatically. His cock twitches again.

“You’re a much faster swimmer, as well,” Robb adds cheerfully, bolting into Theon’s space and grabbing at his ankle when he tries to swim away.

“Quit —” Theon flails, but his back slams against the large stone jutting from just inside the deeper shore of the spring. 

There’s barely a breath of space between them. There’s a soft brush of skin against Theon’s cock, and Robb’s face changes, startled. He looks down curiously, and Theon jolts back, shoving at Robb’s chest.

“Get off me.”

“Wait—!” 

The word bursts from Robb’s chest without warning. In the same instant, he snatches Theon’s wrist to keep him from jumping from the water and running away. Theon feels pinned, breath caught tense in his throat. He doesn’t move.

When Robb kisses him, it’s curious and innocent, a gentle press of his lips against Theon’s. The warm, pleasant kiss he’s seen his parents share in their tender moments they allow themselves in front of the children. It causes Theon’s heart to seize in his chest. He gasps, and Robb pulls away, blinking.

Theon’s hands move without permission, grabbing Robb by his sopping curls and pulling him greedily back to his mouth. Robb’s lips are parted in surprise, and for an instant, Theon allows himself to take advantage, stroking Robb’s tongue with his own, but panic grips him in the very next second, and Theon pushes him away.

“Fuck.” 

Robb is still too struck to move, and Theon throws himself to the shore, snatching up his clothes as he runs.

“Theon, wait —”

He doesn’t, not even looking back as he races out of the godswood. 

He stays in his room at dinner, and doesn’t answer when Robb knocks on the door. By dusk, Robb is worried enough to send Jon to knock in his stead. 

“Robb wants to speak to you,” Theon hears him from the other side of the door, his voice sullen.

Sometimes Robb will do this when they argue, as if Theon would ever do anything for Jon Snow that he won’t do for Robb, even when livid with him. Theon wonders how much Jon knows this time — how much he ever learns about his arguments with Robb. Theon hates to think he knows anything at all. There’s no way Jon offers his help freely when the two of them are squabbling.

“Well, I don’t want to speak to him.” Theon shouts back through the door. Hurt, he adds bitterly, “Or to you, Snow.”

He hears muttering then, two voices too low to understand from behind the door, and realizes Robb must be standing there, as well. Furious, Theon jumps up and slams his hand against the door to stop their chatting.

“Go away.” There’s shuffling, footsteps wandering down the hall, but Theon can sense Robb still standing there. Still sees his shadow blocking the light under Theon’s door. “You too, Stark.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Robb is waiting for Jon to be out of earshot.

“I’ll have my father come if you stay in there much longer,” he says nervously. “I’ll tell him you’re skipping meals, he won’t be happy. He calls the blacksmith for Sansa’s door when she pouts.”

That isn’t fair. Theon pulls the bolt off the door and swings it open. Robb is standing there, looking frightened and small, and it only infuriates Theon further. 

“I’m your father’s charge, not his blood.” he snaps. “He’d not care enough to break the door down.”

Robb shrugs. “You opened the door.”

Beet red, Theon tries to pull the door shut, but Robb splays his hand over the door jamb, and Theon freezes. 

“Move your hand.”

“Are you frightened of me?”

“Gods, is that what you think?” Theon snorts.

Robb looks down. He does not move his hand. “You ran away.”

Theon doesn’t have a response for that. “Move your hand.”

“Tell me why you ran.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything,” Theon growls. “I’m your father’s ward, not yours.”

Robb smirks. “So would you tell _him_ why you ran?”

Burning from scalp to spine, Theon shoves at Robb’s chest, forcing him to stumble back and slamming the door in his face.

“Theon,” Robb calls, hammering on the door before Theon has even made it back to his bed. “Theon, please, I’m sorry.”

It stings. He wishes it didn’t. It shouldn’t matter that Robb is sorry. Theon shouldn’t care. None of it matters, not really. None of them do. None of the girls in winter town, not Ros, not Kyra, not Robb. There wasn’t anything to speak of. Just a pathetic little kiss. In the end, Theon will have a hundred salt wives and Robb will only have the one — some prim and proper lady to birth him heirs and nothing more.

Sorry. Of course he’s sorry. He’s a lordly little brat with all the honor and duty of the Tullys and the Starks combined.

“Go away,” Theon repeats furiously. This time, Robb listens.

For days, Theon avoids him. Now that Robb has tried to talk to him, he allows Theon to steer clear, but he stalls obviously after meals, and often stops what he’s doing if Theon has no choice but to walk past him — hoping to interact.

The idea is like poison gnarling Theon’s insides. When they were children, Theon hadn’t thought much of it. He and Robb were both lords and heirs to their own kingdoms, and nothing more. They were equals. But as he grows, he has come to realize that it is not that simple. Theon is not free, not truely. He may be a lord and an heir, but as long as his father lives Theon is a hostage of the Starks — of Robb’s. His lord father first, but if Lord Stark were to die before Theon’s own father, he’d be a captive of his heir. Robb is Theon’s junior by three years, and his closest friend, and he would own Theon, then.

It shouldn’t excite him. He shouldn’t want it. Theon isn’t sure why the thought thrills him. Lord Stark has only ever been kind to him. He shouldn’t wish him dead. And he doesn’t — not really. He’s not sure what it is he wishes for.

He does know that whatever it is makes it difficult to look the Lord or Lady in the eye. He knows it has to do with their firstborn son and heir, the proud, gentle boy with the honorbound strength of his father and the tender heart of his mother. Growing taller and more handsome with every passing year. Taller and stronger than Theon, at least. Why does he like that? Being overpowered? He should hate it. His father would be disgusted by him, that his only remaining son was so weak and small. Weaker and smaller than his captor.

The days are spent busy with chores, but at night, Theon’s mind wanders back to the spring, the way Robb had grabbed his arm, told him to wait. Theon lets himself imagine not being able to pull away, thinks of Robb holding him too tight, pushing him back against the shore. He thinks of Robb leaning in close and hissing _No._ He doesn’t want _wait_. He doesn’t want _I’m sorry._ He doesn’t want a choice.

At night, when Theon has finished stroking himself to completion alone in his chambers, he wonders what the ironborn would think of him, if they knew.


	2. Chapter 2

Lord Stark notices Theon acting strange eventually.

“You and Robb have been distant, recently,” he mentions one evening while Theon helps him sort scrolls to be sent out on the legs of Maester Luwin’s ravens. Usually, Lord Stark has to pry the two of them apart to get Theon to do anything without Robb. “Did you two quarrel over something?”

His tone is kind, but firm, formal. Lord Stark has raised him alongside his trueborn children and bastard son like one of his own, but he’s always somewhat distant to Theon — he’s always aware that he’s speaking to the heir of a house other than his own. Everything he said to Theon, potentially, had some far-off political ramification. Even when Theon was too young to realize it, Lord Stark spoke to him in a cautious, distrustful way, only carefully choosing what to reveal and what to ask. What sort of man mistrusts a child? Was Theon so suspicious?

If Theon and Robb were quarrelling, Lord Stark wouldn’t hesitate to side with his son.

Theon shakes his head. “No, my lord,” he says softly.

Theon doesn’t elaborate, but he knows he doesn’t need to. Lord Stark loves his children, he may even love Theon in a pitying sort of way, but he is a pragmatic man. He does not press anyone to speak of their feelings. If Theon insists he and Robb are not fighting, Lord Stark will not ask again.

It’s startling, still, that Lord Stark noticed enough to mention anything. It must be more obvious than Theon thought. He wonders how much longer Robb will allow him to avoid him before sending Jon after him again. Theon hates when he does that almost as much as Jon seems to. It doesn’t ever feel like an attempt at peace. It feels more as if Robb is taunting him: _If you don’t like me anymore, I still have Jon. He’s just as good as you._

He wonders, despite himself, if Jon feels how Theon does. Like he’s property of the Starks, rather than his own person. He wonders if Jon likes it the same way Theon does — hates to.

Probably not. Jon doesn’t seem to like much of anything.

The castle is dark and silent, the only sound the quiet hum of hot spring water thrumming through the pipes in the walls when Theon knocks on Robb’s door. It takes Robb an age to reach the door, and when he does he only creeps it open, expecting a scullery maid, or perhaps Jory with a message of some sort. When his eyes adjust to the dim light to see Theon, he swings the door open.

Theon isn’t sure what he’s expecting. They haven’t spoken in days, and Robb is looking at him as if he’s not sure who he is. 

“It’s you,” Robb says. 

Theon tenses, and Robb seems to realize himself.

“I’m sorry, Theon,” he says, and gods, it’s still such a sour sound. “I’m sorry, I hadn’t meant —”

“Stop it,” Theon interrupts, taking a step back from Robb’s doorway. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

Robb doesn’t say anything to that. 

Theon drops his eyes. “I’d — I’d rather if you weren’t, actually.”

“Weren’t what?”

“Sorry,” Theon spits. “I don’t want— it wasn’t…”

Gods, what is he doing? He’s ironborn, not some fragile maid. He shouldn’t have to apologize for anything, he should be allowed to take what he wants. But the thing he wants can’t be taken, and Robb is fucking _sorry,_ so it will never be given, either.

His father would hate him. What kind of ironborn is he?

“Theon?” Robb’s voice is so gentle, careful and measured. He sounds just as lordly as his father does. “Is everything alright?”

Theon nods, but Robb only frowns. He steps aside to allow Theon inside, but Theon only takes a step back, further into the darkened hall. 

“If — if you’re still angry with me,” Robb starts. Theon scoffs, and Robb falls silent. For a long time, the two of them stand without saying a word. Finally, Robb drops his hand from the door. “I’m sorry that I frightened you.”

“Frightened me?” Theon barks, offended. “Enough with that. I wasn’t — I wasn’t _scared._ ”

Robb blinks. “I don’t understand, then,” he says, still infuriatingly proper. “I thought — you ran away. I thought I upset you, when I…” he hesitates. There isn’t a delicate term for what they did. “When I kissed you.”

“You’re the one who’s sorry for kissing me,” he grumbles. It sounds more petulant than he means it to.

Robb shakes his head. “No, not for that,” he says, his cheeks pink. “Well, I am. I shouldn’t have done that. But I liked the… I liked the kissing part. But you ran, and I assumed that… you didn’t.”

He looks so shy, even with the way Theon has to look up to meet his eyes, Robb still seems impossibly small. He’s an idiot to think that way after how Theon kissed him back, but Theon bites his tongue to keep from saying so.

“Your father’d have my head if he knew,” he says finally.

“So you _were_ scared,” Robb insists.

When Theon looks up to glare at him, Robb is grinning. He’s teasing. He doesn’t mean it. Of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t believe for a moment that his lord father would ever take Theon’s life for anything. Theon isn’t a hostage to Robb. He’s a friend. He’s family. He’d never know how real Theon’s fear is of one day hearing news that the Iron Islands have rebelled once again. Even if Theon told him, he realizes, Robb would never believe it.

“Will you come inside?” Robb asks gently. “We’ll wake someone if you stand out here much longer.”

Nervous, Theon crosses the threshold, and Robb closes the door behind him. There’s an old, low fire crackling in Robb’s hearth. It’s the only light besides the faint glow of stars streaming in from his window, and frames Robb’s face with a soft orange gleam. 

Robb’s bed is unmade, just a few feet away from them. He must have already been in it when Theon knocked.

It feels abruptly wrong, that Theon is here.

“It’s late —” he starts, but Robb cuts him off, throwing his arms around his shoulders. 

“I’m glad you’re not angry with me,” Robb interrupts, tucking his head against Theon’s neck. Theon tenses, and Robb pulls back, feeling instantly foolish, and looks him in the face. “You — you promise you’re not?”

“I’m not,” Theon says shakily. He drops his gaze down to their feet. Robb is too close for Theon to look at him. “I just… shouldn’t — I should get back to my —”

Robb still doesn’t let him finish, bowing his head to take Theon’s mouth in his own.

It’s still such a sweet and gentle press of lips against Theon’s mouth, but the way Robb has to bow slightly to reach him makes Theon dizzy. Robb breaks the kiss into several, tender pecks against his mouth. It isn’t until he reaches up to cup Theon’s face that Theon kisses back, grabbing handfuls of Robb’s hair to help him reach.

“Op — open your mouth,” Theon begs, “Just a little, I’ll — I’ll show you how—”

Robb does as he says, and Theon shivers as he slides his tongue over Robb’s bottom lip, dragging over his tongue. Robb makes a sound, pleased and shocked, and a gasp bursts from Theon’s chest.

Robb breaks the kiss with a boyish giggle, a soft huff against Theon’s mouth. “Your — your beard, it tickles.”

Theon pushes up on the balls of his feet to pull Robb back into the kiss. “I’ll — I’ll take a razor to it in the morning, if you — if you want.”

“No, I like it,” Robb insists warmly, holding Theon up by his shoulders. His voice is winded when he repeats, “I really like it.” 

The grip on Theon is solid, and he moans against Robb’s mouth again, unable to stop himself. Robb cups the back of Theon’s head, gentle but firm, and Theon melts against his chest. He wants Robb to throw him down onto his bed, up against the wall, to grab and force him anywhere. He’s strong enough to do it now. 

“Robb —”

Robb is learning how to kiss back with such absurd ease that Theon gets swept into it, reaching down to run quick fingers over the front of Robb’s pants without thinking. On instinct, Robb responds with a soft gasp, hips rolling against Theon’s hand. Theon presses back harder, feeling the long, swelling shape against Robb’s leg.

Mind reeling, Theon forgets himself, his free hand dragging Robb down by his hair to kiss him deeper. He’s moaning like a whore against Robb’s tongue, helpless and needy, and the hold Robb has on him tightens, one fist clenching in his hair and the other digging nails hard into his shoulder. Theon goes slack against it, hand still working tentatively over Robb’s leg, delicate and careful. There’s no way he could stand if not for the way Robb is holding him.

“Tell — tell me what you want, Robb, please —”

His words break the spell, and Robb’s head jolts back, panting against Theon’s mouth. His hips are still pressed up against Theon’s hand, but he looks nervous, and Theon’s fingers freeze.

“The Seven — look down on this sort of thing,” Robb says breathlessly. “We shouldn’t — we shouldn’t —”

_Fuck your Seven,_ Theon wants to say, but he shakes his head. “No, I — not if —” 

It can’t stop, not when he’s this close at last. When Robb’s grip loosens, Theon folds instantly at his knees, giving his head another shake as he tugs at Robb’s laces. He gives Robb a gentle push, so that he steps back toward his bed, and crawls after him to close the distance. Warm fog settles over Theon’s thoughts as he stumbles forward on his knees. He belongs here, for Robb. He should stay this way. 

It’s a struggle, to remember he was speaking. “It doesn’t count if I use my mouth,” he promises, not knowing if it’s true. “Honest, it doesn’t.”

“I don’t remember — reading that,” Robb gasps, disbelieving. 

His resolve is fading faster than it can start. He’s too green to help himself. A hand knots hard in Theon’s hair when he drags his tongue over Robb’s cock through his pants. Robb may not remember reading it, but he’ll believe it now, Theon will make sure. 

When Robb looks at him, Theon can see the thought cross his mind. Desperate, Theon shakes his head, tangling his fingers in the laces of Robb’s pants.

“You won’t — I don’t need anything. Just let me. Your soul stays clean, just let — let me…”

Robb is still standing, upright like a true lord as he stares down at Theon begging on his knees. It shouldn’t cause Theon’s cock to twitch. He’s ironborn. Heir of the Iron Islands. But all he wants is to suck the cock of his captor’s son.

“Please,” Theon spits out, ashamed. 

It’s a filthy word to the ironborn. His father would disown him. But then, hasn’t he already? Robb is all he has left. It shouldn’t, but the begging stirs arousal in his gut. He can already tell Robb is melting into it, but the embarrassment just drives him mad, and the words are falling from his mouth before he can stop them.

“Let me suck your cock, Robb.” He looks up, helpless. “Please, I’ll make it — make it good…”

The words seem to rush to Robb’s head as well. His breath is heavy as he stares down at Theon. “Good enough for seven hells, Greyjoy?”

“I’d be the sinner, not you,” he says hastily, “And I — I want it.”

Robb’s eyes are on fire. Theon drags his tongue over the line in Robb’s pants again, and Robb stumbles, just slightly, back toward his rumpled bed. “Is that — right?”

“My god doesn’t mind it none,” Theon pleads, too dizzy to think through his words, “and the Seven won’t know it like this. Please, Robb. Please let me. I’ll — I’ll make it good, I — I promise.”

Robb’s eyes slide shut as he nods at last. “Go — get on with it, Greyjoy.”

A bolt of shameful pleasure rolls over Theon’s spine as he scrambles at Robb’s laces. “Thank you,” he babbles without thinking, and Robb’s hand tightens in his hair. “Gods, thank you.”

He fumbles as he works Robb’s cock from his pants. It’s only half-hard, but already wider than he’d thought from the glimpses he’d caught of it before. Theon gapes at it, forgetting himself, and Robb tugs at his hair.

“ _Now,_ Greyjoy.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon whispers without thinking, wrapping his mouth greedily around his cock. 

He’s thick and hot on Theon’s tongue. The touch drags a soft little gasp from Robb’s chest, and makes Theon groan and suck him down. The taste stings and his jaw aches. The image of Robb blurs above him. Theon’s cock is straining against his leg. His skin is burning and his head is spinning. He takes a deep breath through his nose and drags his tongue along the underside of Robb’s cock, eyes unblinking as he swallows around him, gagging and helpless.

“Have you… done this before?” Robb asks, eyes glassy. “Taken — any boy whores?”

Theon only blinks. Tears are welling in his eyes. He gags down another breath, bobbing his head, and Robb shivers as he rips Theon back by the hair, off of his cock. 

“I asked you a question.”

“No, m’lord,” Theon whimpers, mouth hanging open and breath heaving. His hips are starting to jerk, desperate for touch. “No, I swear it. I — just want... Please — please…”

Robb tilts his head. “Never?” 

He thinks Theon is lying. If he thinks Theon is lying he might not let him finish. Theon shakes his head again, reaching for Robb’s hips. As fingers brush Robb’s skin, he stumbles back, slapping Theon’s hands away.

“I didn’t say you could touch me.”

Even as he says it, Theon sees the uncertainty on his face. He doesn’t know where the words come from, somewhere deeper than he’s aware. He’s embarrassed, but the hint of a snarl in Robb’s voice only hits like a shot to Theon’s cock. Licking his lips, he nods, not breaking eye contact. 

“Yes, m’lord, I’m sorry.” Before Robb can order it, Theon holds his hands behind his back, clasping them together at the base of his spine. “Please let me, m’lord.”

Curious, Robb releases his grip, and Theon leans forward, desperate whine pulling from deep in his chest as he takes Robb to the hilt. The hand is back in his hair in an instant, and Robb shouts, losing his balance and falling back onto the bed. Theon gags as Robb’s cock shifts and falls from his mouth, but he hobbles forward on his knees, hands still behind his back, and drags Robb back into his mouth.

“Theon —” Robb’s voice is different now, higher and thready. Theon’s cock throbs against his leg. “Seven _hells,_ Theon.”

The weight on his tongue makes his cock twitch, his hips shifting instinctively to relieve the pressure. Nails are digging into his skull so hard his vision is going white. Above him, Robb’s words are starting to slur together as language seems to slide out of his reach, babbling nonsense on the edge of his breath.

“How did you — I — I want — _fuck..._ ”

Robb’s hips jerk, and Theon groans, jaw going slack to give him all he can, letting Robb fuck down his throat. Robb’s eyes are burning, mouth hanging open. His fingers are clenched tight in Theon’s curls, forcing Theon’s head back and forth over his cock. 

Theon whines, tears streaming down his face. He tightens his hands against his back, keening, helpless to touch himself. 

But he can’t, not unless Robb tells him.

“You — you love it,” Robb pants. “You could do — nothing — nothing else —”

Moaning, Thon tries to nod, bobbing his head back against the the grip in Robb’s hands. Robb’s fingers are shaking, sweat drenching his temples. His eyes are so dark he looks possessed, and all Theon can think is _I’m not giving him enough._ He isn’t low enough on his knees. He should be crawling to Robb on his stomach. Tears are pouring down his face, helpless to please him. He doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to come, only wants to be here on his knees, his mouth around Robb’s cock forever.

As if hearing his thoughts, Robb keens, hips losing rhythm as he fucks down Theon’s throat. “I — I can’t —”

Theon’s eyes roll back as the strong bitter taste hits his tongue. He doesn’t want it to stop. He drags his mouth back and forth over Robb’s cock until Robb rips him away, hands shaking and knotted in Theon’s hair. 

His breath is loud and shivering and the only sound in the room. Theon doesn’t close his mouth. Robb’s hands are still shaking when they let go of Theon’s hair to frame his face.

“Theon?” His voice is hoarse. He’s still panting. 

Theon wishes his mouth were still full. He has nothing to say.

“Theon.” His voice is sharper now. He swallows, and gives Theon a quick shake. “Look at me.”

It takes a moment to get his eyes to focus. Robb looks concernedly down at him. His eyes are clear again, and the corner of his mouth turned down. He looks every part a lord again. He drags his thumb over the corner of Theon’s mouth, and Theon whines. His cock is still straining in his pants. 

“Are you alright?”

Shaky, Theon nods.

“Gods, are you — are you sure? Say something.”

Theon breathes in deep, his mouth still lax.

“Robb,” he says finally, his voice a heavy, rasping gasp. “Let me. Please, I have to— Please let me.”

Robb furrows his brow, his hands falling from Theon’s face. “Let — let you?” He trails off as his eyes catch the way Theon is squirming. “Seven hells.”

Theon whines, and for a moment Robb just stares at him. His eyes are sympathetic, warm, and when he opens his mouth Theon expects permission. 

Abruptly, something changes over Robb’s face. Curiosity, raised eyebrows. He tilts his head.

“No.”

Heat roars through Theon’s body, blood pounding in his ears. His hands throw out to catch himself before he falls onto the floor. “No?”

Robb shakes his head, though his expression seems more shocked than resolute. He gets to his feet, tucking himself awkwardly back into his pants. “I said no. You told me you didn’t need anything, and now you’re trying to take it back. I’m not going to let you do anything if you lie to me.” As Robb speaks his voice tenses, his breathing coming out in gasps between his teeth. “If you want so badly to tug yourself off go do it in your own room.”

For a moment, Theon has nothing to say. His head is spinning. Robb has never taken him by such surprise before. Robb raises his eyebrows, expectant.

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon whimpers, getting shakily to his feet. “May — may I be excused, m’lord?”

He’s hunched down, halfway through a bow. Robb grabs a handful of his hair, and Theon keens, stumbling. 

“If you lie to me that way again,” Robb says sharply, “The answer will be ‘no’ to that, as well.”

Theon blinks, tears rolling down his face. “Y — yes, m’lord.”

Robb drops his hold. He still looks somehow surprised, as if still under the assumption this may not be Theon before him at all. Narrowing his eyes, he gives a curt nod. “You may leave.”

The room spins as Theon makes it to the door, stumbling down the halls and tripping up the steps to his own room. His hand is already tugging at the laces of his breeches before he even shuts his door behind him. 

Fire rolls through his blood as he drags his shaking hand over his cock. His mind is still reeling from the taste of Robb in his mouth, the comfort of being on his knees. He drops back to his knees on the hard stone floor and tries to picture Robb still standing above him, his eyebrows raised, eyes dark. _“Now, Greyjoy.”_

Vision flashing white, the buzzing in his spine spreads to the tips of his fingers and he comes, a soft whimper leaving his mouth as his body wracks with pleasure along the razor edge of too much. The whimper might be Robb’s name. There’s thick, sticky heat dripping over Theon’s fingers, but the feeling coursing through him is still too much to move. He stays on his knees, blinking back to himself. 

When he drags his tongue over the palm of his filthy hand, Theon lets himself believe that Robb would have told him to.

He doesn’t move from the floor. Kneeling, he feels as if he is sinking into a warm bath. Robb would want him down here. Robb would like him down here. He wishes Robb were here to see. Theon sits back on his heels and shuts his eyes. Robb had scolded him for asking to come, maybe he would’ve punished Theon for coming, if he were here to see. The thought gives Theon chills.

His joints are burning by the time he gets up from the floor. He rinses his hands in the wash basin and lays back in his bed. He wonders if Robb is asleep by now, or if he’s lying awake. He wonders what he may be thinking, or if he’s dreaming.

It’s difficult to fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Theon is too busy with Lord Stark’s early chores to worry about Robb until breakfast. He’s pleased when Robb sits next to him easily, setting down his plate without hesitation. At first, he has nothing to say, eating with a little more speed than he usually does. Theon expects something is amiss, but he takes a steadying breath and tells himself not to panic. It would only end worse, if he were to push Robb to speak. He must get used to this, differing to his lord.

Robb swallows thickly at a lump of potatoes before glancing anxiously at Theon. “You were out early this morning,” he says finally. “I’d wanted to — ask you, before breakfast.”

He doesn’t say what it was that he had meant to ask Theon, so Theon waits a moment for Robb to finish.

“Ask me what?” he presses under his breath. 

Robb swallows again. “Was last night —? I’d hope it wasn’t...”

He trails off, torturously, and Theon’s mind races with all the things Robb could mean to say. All of his thoughts reach the same conclusion. _It’ll never happen again._

Theon watches him, but Robb won’t say more. He’s turning pink, but his eyes are cast down to his empty plate. Theon glances around at the rest of the Starks gathered at the table. Arya and Sansa are arguing loudly enough about something that no one is taking notice of the two of them whispering together. 

Under his breath, Theon ventures, “Were you — did you not like it?”

“I did,” Robb admits, eyes flickering from Theon’s face. “But I — did you?”

Theon laughs softly. “It was my idea, Robb.”

Robb doesn’t know what to say to that. He tilts his head. The look on his face leaves Theon feeling naked, and he gathers his plate and excuses himself to the kitchens. Robb doesn’t have the common sense to stay put. He snatches up his own dishes and traipses after Theon, even when Theon tries to lose him on his way to the kitchens. He’s blessedly silent in front of the cooks, but when Theon starts down the corridor to the courtyard, Robb grabs his wrist and tugs him still. 

“All of it?” he asks, like they’d never stopped talking, “The way I — even the way I treated you? What I made you do? Afterwards? Sending you away like that. I thought that you would be —”

“I liked —” There’s a sudden lump in Theon’s throat. He scans the hall for signs of anyone else, but they’re thankfully alone. “I liked that.”

Eyes bright, Robb opens his mouth, like he wants to say something, ask a question that his mother’s gods might not permit. 

Theon stares back at him, waiting, silent. He’s beginning to feel bolder, standing where they are. Ser Rodrik won’t call for lessons so early, no one else will pass them to the courtyard. 

When Robb doesn’t come up with anything to say, Theon shrugs his shoulders.

“I liked that,” he repeats pointedly, “when you… ordered me.” 

Robb’s breath hitches. He’s still so innocent about these things. Theon suddenly wonders if he’d even taken a hand to himself before Theon fell to his knees for him. The thought flares hot in the pit of Theon’s stomach, and he steps close enough to feel the energy thrumming through Robb’s skin.

“I am a ward of the Starks, and you are heir to Winterfell. I have to do what you tell me,” he says, blood loud in his ears. “Don’t I?” 

He can still remember the cold stone under his knees, the pleasure trembling through his body as he looked up at Robb, waiting for permission. His spine itches to do it again, now, and take him in his mouth while no one’s around. He clears his throat, steadying himself. He has to be steady, in control, now. If isn’t, Robb will get scared. He might bolt away.

“I have to do anything you tell me. You will be my lord someday. And I — it feels good. To obey you.”

He laughs when Robb’s mouth falls open. 

“Oh come now,” Theon says under his breath, laughing softly despite himself, “is it that surprising? We can’t all have your father’s peerless honor, can we, little lord? Some of us must disgrace ourselves from time to time.” His eyes skate over Robb’s body, watching an excited chill pull under his skin. “Not even you should be expected to be so perfect all the time. It would exhaust your little heart.”

Robb’s eyes fall to his feet. The poor boy is swallowed by shame with nothing to go on with a father like his. He still has no idea the kind of debauchery ordinary folks get up to once the doors are closed. It’s so tender that Theon has to fight the urge to touch his face, kiss him the same way Robb had kissed him in the godswood springs. Theon likes that too, from time to time. Being sweet.

“It feels good for you, too, doesn’t it?” Theon says instead, keeping his voice even. He isn’t sure if it’s true. “You like it. You like that I’m —” _Yours_ sticks in Theon’s throat and he swallows. “I’m your family’s ward. You like that you get to order me around. And I have to do whatever my little lord asks of me. Good practice, is it not?”

“This is not how I plan on ruling Winterfell,” Robb insists breathlessly.

“No,” Theon answers, feeling drawn closer to Robb with every heave of his breath, “far too much honor for that. Couldn’t stand all your bannermen knowing that about you.”

Robb is looking down at him like he wants to kiss him. They’re standing so close, Theon can smell the sweat beading on his neck. The hall sways under Theon’s feet as he stretches to stand on his toes, pressing his mouth to Robb’s ear.

“Tell me what — what you want,” Theon says before he can stop himself. “I want… I want to know what you’d do to me, if you could do anything.”

It’s too much. Robb takes a step back from him, startled, and Theon holds back the instinct to reach for him. Touching Robb would frighten him. Instead, all Theon does is make sure he’s smiling as Robb stares back at him. That easy, lazy smile that holds no pressure behind it, no judgement. 

He watches tension ease from Robb’s eyes, but only for an instant before his head whips around to face the end of the hall. 

A second later, Theon hears it too: approaching footsteps, quick and light. 

In the next instant, little Rickon barrels into sight at the end of the hall, all wild curls and giggles at one of the doorways, tripping over himself in his toddler’s waddle as he charges at Robb. 

When Robb reaches down to scoop him up, Rickon squeals in delight and shouts, “Tag!”

Laughter bubbles out of Theon far harder than it should, and he doubles over, reaching for the wall for support. Confused, Robb looks blankly from Theon to his brother, too pale and panicked to even understand what it is Rickon has said.

“Robb isn’t playing,” Bran calls from the end of the hall as he comes trotting up to them. “He’s too old to play. You can’t tag him, that’s cheating.”

Dazed, Robb sets Rickon back on the floor, but Rickon only reaches for him again. “Tag!”

“Did you say Robb was playing?” Arya’s voice echos off the stone walls from the end of the corridor. 

Poor Robb looks close to tears, and Theon’s laughter is bordering on hysterical. 

“I’m not —” Robb starts, but Arya is already stampeding headlong toward them both. “I’m not!”

It doesn’t stop Arya, who tackles Robb’s legs with enough momentum that he stumbles backward into Theon. Instinctively, Theon attempts to catch Robb against his chest, but the sudden weight takes him by surprise and his knees buckle and they both topple to the floor with Arya on top of them. Theon’s laughter dies in his throat with a sudden choke as he lands back against the stone floor. Robb lays draped over Theon’s lap, one hand on the floor between his legs.

The children don’t notice. Rickon squeals with delight at having seen the older boys be tagged.

“You’re not even _it,_ Arya,” Bran snaps, frustrated, but Arya is unbothered.

“Does this mean that Jon can play too?”

“Robb isn’t _playing,_ ” Bran groans again.

Robb hasn’t righted himself, still splayed over Theon’s legs, and Theon starts to feel sweat sliding down the back of his neck. He’s too close, and with everyone else standing around he might die of embarrassment.

“Robb,” he hisses in an attempt to get him to stand, but Arya hears him, and misunderstands.

“If even _Theon’s_ playing, Jon should be playing.”

“I’m _not_ playing,” Theon growls, the tension in his spine making his voice sound petulant and childish.

Rickon waddles over to where they’re heaped on the floor and pushes his plump hand into Theon’s face.

“Tag,” he says, very seriously.

For a moment, the whole hall is silent. Theon’s not sure what to do, and no one else knows what to expect from him. When Robb first starts to laugh, it’s quiet, stifled behind his glove. But once he’s started the rest bubbles to the surface, and the rest other children join in, until Stark laughter is echoing off the stone walls through the whole castle.

“You little —” Theon gives Rickon a gentle nudge out of his way and kicks off the floor, headed straight for Arya, who takes off squealing.

The children are easily distracted, and neither Theon nor Robb are forced to play with them for very long before Arya tries to drag poor Sansa into it, and the little ones’ focus shifts away from the older boys. It’s a slow summer day and not much is expected of any of them. Theon’s chores are monotonous and simple, and he’s left alone with his musings. 

Aside from the occasional birdsong through the windows, the armory is so quiet that the soft _swish_ of the oiled linens against steel seem to echo against the walls. Theon watches his own hand move like a pendulum, and sets the sword back where it belongs before picking up another.

He’s not at polishing the steel and armor for very long before he lets his mind wander back to what he and Robb were discussing before being interrupted. 

He wonders what Robb would’ve said, if he’d had the chance to speak.

He’s always known Robb to be a good and gentle lord. He’s a northerner, but with a tender heart like his southern mother. Theon sees it in the way he treats his siblings, and the servants, never a cold thought in that big heart of his. But there’s something underneath all that now. Something dark and sharp taking root inside of him. Robb is afraid of it, Theon can tell. He must not think it very lordly, to want the things that he does. To want to do them to his closest friend, his foster brother. Perhaps it isn’t, but Theon doesn’t care. 

He moves on to a trim, heavy breastplate, stroking it with the slick little cloth until he can see his own face in the steel.

More than anything, he wants to find Robb and ask him again. _What would you do, if you could do anything?_ And he can, Robb must know that. 

Theon’s not sure he would have the right to refuse the heir to Winterfell, even if he wanted to.

And Theon should want to refuse him, he knows. He’s ironborn. Heir to his own homeland. Ironborn do not give, they take. They refuse and rebel against anyone who tries to take back from them. Theon should hate the Starks, hate being named a ward. He should never bend the knee for anyone. It isn’t in his blood to do so.

But Theon’s body wants differently than his family name. And lately, he’s been thinking that he would live the rest of his days on his knees if Robb Stark told him to. How disgusting. As much as he’s ashamed of himself, as much as his father would hate him — his brothers, were they alive to see — it doesn’t keep him from wanting. The shame all makes it sweeter, somehow. Knowing how it would disgust and shame everyone if they knew these things about him, how much he fails to be ironborn. He wonders if it is like that for Robb. His wanting, despite who he’s supposed to be, driving him wild. There’s much stress to being a lord, Theon knows that, and Robb is so good and noble, he would never ask to take his rage or frustration out on anyone undeserving. But perhaps if Theon were to ask, if he knew how deeply Theon wants it.

It’s so easy to remember the taste of him, the feel of cold flagstone under his knees. It had felt like light underneath his skin. He can still feel it — his heart thrumming in his chest. Theon’s lightheaded from the memory of Robb’s fist in his hair and lets his mind wander to what more he could want, if they have the chance to do it again.

He pictures Robb standing over him, Theon stripped naked on his knees. He thinks of Robb forcing him to lick the soles of his boots, striking him across the face if he doesn’t do it quick enough. There’s a sudden burning hot weight in Theon’s stomach. He closes his eyes and tries to see Robb’s face, watching him. _Now, Greyjoy._

“Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon yelps, heart jumping in his throat. He wheels around to see Jory eying him from the doorway of the armory. The polishing rag flies out of his hand and Jory narrows his eyes. 

“Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Theon snaps, flustered and mortified. He keeps his eyes down as he snatches the rag up from the floor. “I’m fine. What — what is it, Jory?”

Jory tilts his head. He seems amused, which is only more humiliating. “Lord Stark is looking for you,” he says finally. “I believe he wants you to collect the children and get them ready for dinner.”

Theon nods, scratching the back of his neck. “Fine.”

He finds Arya in the yard just outside the armory, covered in mud and creeping slowly through the grass behind a rabbit. She must have been stalking the thing for ages. Theon still feels flushed and embarrassed from how Jory had startled him, and takes a cruel sort of pride in barking at her to wash up and find her sister. 

The rabbit darts away, and Arya stamps her foot.

“You scared it off!”

Theon laughs, but it comes out somewhat hoarse. His mind is still elsewhere. “You would’ve done the same with another step. Go get ready for your supper, I’ll never hear the end of it if your mother sees you looking like that.”

Arya stomps off, furious, and Theon goes to find the others. He catches Bran climbing down from the broken tower in the First Keep, and Rickon chasing crows from the ground below. He avoids looking for Robb. He’s most likely already in the hall, anyway.

Dinner is strange. His seat is usually beside Robb, but Theon is still flustered from his own daydreaming, and so he sits beside Sansa instead. She regards him coolly, but has the decency not to complain. Theon wonders if she’d heard of their bickering several days ago. Jon may have told Arya, which means all the Stark children would know, but he’d spent all morning playing with Robb and the little ones. Their arguing must be stale gossip by now.

He can feel Robb’s eyes on him from across the table while he eats. He must think he’s done something wrong. Theon feels guilty, but can’t bear to look at him. Not with these thoughts still in his head.

It’s dusk when Lord Stark sends Theon to lock up the armory after Ser Rodrik has retired for the evening, dark enough that he’s forced to hold a lantern limp from one hand as he fumbles with the massive wooden doors.

“Theon?”

The lantern nearly crashes to the dirty snow at his feet. He wheels around to face Robb, standing awkwardly in front of him, his head tilted to one side. He’s bundled in his wolfskin cloak, but he doesn’t have his own lantern. He must’ve been just behind him this whole time. 

Theon swallows, regaining his composure.

“Wh — what is it?” Theon asks, heart pounding. He’d put Bran and Rickon to bed, but it wouldn’t be the first time one of them had snuck out after Theon closed their doors. “Something the matter?”

“Nothing,” Robb mumbles, sounding embarrassed, “I just — I followed you out here.”

“Why?” Theon asks stupidly. 

Even in the long summer, northern nights carry a chill that whitens the breath in front of their faces. Even in all his furs and cloak, Theon feels the sting of cold on his cheeks. Robb is looking nervously at his gloves.

“I wanted to see you. You were acting odd, at dinner.” 

Theon frowns. He wasn’t acting any different. He just sat away from Robb. “I was just hungry.” 

Robb makes a face, unconvinced, and Theon glares at him. 

“Could you —” Robb starts to ask, but then his face hardens. “Put the lantern down.” 

Theon does without hesitation, eyes never leaving Robb’s face. Robb steps closer to him, hesitant, and Theon can tell in the lamplight just how pale he is. He’s shaking, but Theon can’t tell if that’s from fear or the cold.

“Did you — did you mean what you said earlier…” Robb shifts awkwardly. “You asked what I’d do, if I could do anything.”

Theon feels an odd tension under his ribs. The thought resurfaces in his mind: naked on his knees, his tongue dragging over Robb’s boots. He wonders if Robb may have caught himself daydreaming as well. He looks down at the lamp at his feet. 

“I did,” he admits finally. 

“Can I? Do anything?”

Theon’s afraid to look up from the muddy snow. He nods.

For a moment, there’s silence. Theon watches the snow sweat from the heat of the lamp.

“Kiss me, then,” Robb says, still several steps away, “the way your girls kiss you.”

It’d be such a tender request on its own, but the way Robb specifies it sends a spike of pleasure down Theon’s spine. He clears the distance between them without a word and takes Robb’s face in his hands. He kisses like Ros would, because she kisses best. Gentle and practiced, but starved for it, as if certain it’ll be the last. It could be, for him. If Lady Catelyn were to find them she’d have Theon’s head for doing such wicked things to her firstborn son. A shiver rolls through Theon’s shoulders. Robb doesn’t touch him when he kisses back, but Theon’s hands are shaking, and he has to clench his fingers in Robb’s hair to keep them still.

By the time Theon notices he’s moving backward, he’s already stumbled back against the armory door. His head slams against the heavy wood, and without meaning to, he lets out a soft moan against the kiss.

The sound hits Robb like the strike of a match and he grabs hold of Theon’s wrists and shoves them back against the door. He’s gotten so much stronger than him. Theon’s knees sag underneath him, only kept standing by Robb’s grip on his arms, his body pressing against him into the wooden door. The kiss turns sloppy, teeth gnashing against Theon’s mouth. Robb is losing his composure. He’s unpracticed in where he’s heading. Theon is squirming like a scullery maid and Robb bows over him, releasing his mouth to bite down hard on his neck.

Thoughts blurring together, Theon keens as Robb holds him flat and tight against the door, his jaw tightening on Theon’s throat like a trap closing on the tender leg of a hare. Theon’s legs fall limp against the door and he cries out as his flesh gives under Robb’s teeth.

Robb tears away in an instant, and Theon whimpers. His hands are inexplicably free, and he reaches out, dazed, until his fingers latch in Robb’s cloak. It’s wet with the hint of falling snow, but Theon can’t feel any on his skin. He’s on fire, head spinning. He tugs at Robb’s cloak, but Robb doesn’t close the distance between them again. His thumb touches Theon’s neck, the leather of his gloves cold and damp against his burning skin.

“I hurt you,” Robb whispers, panicked.

Theon shakes his head. “Feels good,” he babbles, dizzy. “I liked it.”

The confession is met with silence, and then Robb’s hand is on Theon’s chin, leading him to meet Robb’s eyes. Flakes of snow are melting in his auburn hair, but he doesn’t brush them away, even as freezing water tracks down his temples. His eyes are cold as steel, and Theon’s heart is pounding against his ribs.

“Please, m’lord,” Theon manages, his voice hoarse. “I like it. I do.”

“Gods —” 

Robb pins him back against the door. Theon can feel the line of his cock pressed against his hip as he thrusts against Theon’s trembling body. He can feel his own cock straining in his breeches, but Robb’s hands are pinning his wrists again, holding him perfectly still. Robb’s breath is coming in short bursts against his temple and Theon’s head is swimming.

“Theon —” Robb’s voice is helpless, lost. 

A hand drops Theon’s wrist to tangle in his hair, holding his throat prone as if ready to bite into him again, but instead he just presses his mouth to Theon’s ear and hisses, “Touch — touch yourself.”

Theon whines, hand fumbling to pull himself out of his pants, but Robb drops his hair to grab his wrist.

“No,” he says firmly before letting go again. “I want — I want you to — in your breeches.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Theon whispers, voice too high to sound anything like himself. 

His hips thrust against the fingers he can just barely fit past the waist of his pants. He’s babbling, but has no idea what he manages to say. Robb’s hips are grinding hard against his leg and Theon has never been so desperate to fall to his knees. Robb let him do it once, he must be willing to let him do it again.

“Please —” Theon’s not sure what he’s asking for, and neither is Robb, who only gasps wet against his ear.

He’s coming, Theon realizes as he feels heat bleed out from Robb’s breeches against his leg. The world goes white and Theon is begging, twisting against Robb’s slackening hold.

“Do you — need me to tell you?” Robb asks, breathless.

“ _Yes,_ ” Theon pleads.

It’s quiet for a moment, and Theon thinks he might be crying. “G — go on,” Robb says finally. 

Pleasure blazes along the edge of intensity as Theon collapses against him with a gasp. 

Robb stumbles as he catches Theon against his chest, but stays standing, holding him upright. Theon comes back to himself to the feeling of Robb’s gloved fingers pressed against his throat.

“You’re bleeding,” he tells Theon gently. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Nodding, Theon drops his head to Robb’s shoulder, catching his breath. He doesn’t say what’s on the tip of his tongue. He doesn’t admit that Robb could tear him apart like the butchered meat of an animal and Theon would die happier than he’s ever been.

He doesn’t want to scare Robb. It already scares Theon plenty.

“I’m fine,” he says instead. “It’ll… it’ll be fine.”

He stumbles a little as they walk back to the castle. By the time Theon realizes Robb is the one holding his lantern, they’re already back inside. 

“Do you need me to wake the maester?” Robb asks gently as he walks with Theon back to his room. He touches Theon’s neck curiously; it must still be bleeding.

“And tell him what, little lord?” Theon manages with a smirk. It still takes more focus than he’s used to, forming words. “Found me out in the snow? Ravaged by a wolf?”

Robb frowns. He doesn’t find it funny, even when Theon laughs. Theon still feels drunk, warm and dizzy. His own seed is chilling uncomfortably against his leg, but it hardly matters with Robb in front of him. He wants to drag Robb into his room and shower him with attention, suck his cock until he begs Theon to stop. Gods, he just _wants._

“I’ll be alright, Stark,” he says at last, if only to break the silence between them. He leans forward to kiss him, realizing himself just a breath away and stops. “I’ll see the maester in the morning, tell him I got rough with a tavern wench. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to stitch me up.”

At that, Robb’s face darkens, and Theon’s smile falls.

“It wasn’t from a tavern wench,” Robb says petulantly. 

The corner of Theon’s mouth twitches, not sure if he should smile. He presses his lips against Robb’s ear. “Believe me, little lord. I know it wasn’t.” 

When he pulls back, Robb isn’t looking at his face, eyes pinned on the drying blood at Theon’s throat. Even in the dim torchlight along the halls, Theon can see the glint in his eyes. It jolts a tremor through Theon’s hands, sweat slicking his palms. Instinctively, his eyes scan the halls, sure someone will find them.

“Does it hurt?” Robb asks, bringing his attention back.

Theon shakes his head, because it doesn’t, but searches Robb’s face, curious. “Would — would you rather it did?” He swallows, wondering if they’re still playing. “M’lord?”

Barely audible, Robb gasps. His eyes find Theon’s, but he doesn’t answer.

“You can hurt me,” Theon says quietly. His voice is shaking. Robb looks as if he’s contemplating tearing him apart at any moment. It makes Theon’s head swim. “I’d — I’d like that, too, if you did.”

Robb tilts his head. “Why?”

It’s such an innocent, simple question, and Theon has no idea. He doesn’t understand it anymore than Robb does. All he knows is that he wants it. He wants Robb to rip into his skin and leave him scarred and sore. He wants Robb to taste his blood on his tongue, to strangle him, whip him with wet ropes until he’s too sore to leave his bed the next morning. He wouldn’t mind if Robb ruined him.

“Theon?”

“I — I like the way it feels.”

It must sound innocent enough, because Robb smiles at him. “Is this to do with being ironborn?”

Theon chuckles, but shame burns like flame through his veins. No, it’s nothing to do with being ironborn. Such things would be utterly reviled back home. Ironborn are warriors, but they do not enjoy pain. They would never suffer being made a thrall. No one should. 

Theon thinks it may have more to do with being a captive. 

Ashamed, Theon only shrugs. “Mayhaps.”

Robb’s eyes are shining as he looks back at him. Young and inexperienced, he’s already feeling the thrum in his blood again. Theon’s eyes dart over the halls before he stands on his toes to kiss Robb on the mouth. He pulls away before Robb can respond, but he sees the twitch in his hands as he moves back. Robb planned to continue the kiss — to control it.

“Goodnight, Stark.” Theon smiles at him.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning, Maester Luwin tisks while applying a soft, wine-soaked rag to the bite mark on Theon’s throat. 

“You should be more careful,” the old man chides, with only a hint of fondness in his exasperation. He’s had to do this for him far too many times. “Northern girls have teeth like wolves.”

Theon laughs. “Aye,” he says gently. _The boys, too._ “I’ve noticed.”

With a sigh, Maester Luwin eyes his work. “You best not let the Lord or Lady see you sporting such a wound,” he tells him, giving a gentle tap to the bandage he’s applied. “You’ll get quite a lecture if it’s something the children can see.”

The way he eyes Theon, he can tell he’s lucky Maester Luwin isn’t in the mood to give the lecture himself this morning.

”I know. I will,” he says, still with a hint of a smirk. “Thank you, Maester Luwin.”

At breakfast, Theon wears a high-collared tunic, and feels Robb watching him for the whole meal.

There’s a sprinkling of rain during midday, and the boys are forced to practice their drills in the mud. It’s cold and grey, and Theon boasts a seafarer's advantage in the rain when he’s able to drop Robb twice in a row. Before he can get too cocky, Jon knocks Theon into the mud within minutes of their own match. The bastard’s been stormier than usual lately, especially toward Theon. 

Still, Jon offers a hand to help him up when Theon lands on his back. 

Before Theon can swallow his wounded pride, Jon squints down at him he asks, “What happened to your neck?”

Theon doesn’t bother to take his hand. He brushes cold mud off his leather doublet and gives Jon a lopsided grin. “Why not ask Kyra what happened to my neck next time you find yourself in the winter town, Snow?”

It takes a moment for realization to settle on Jon’s sullen face. Once he’s realized what Theon means, he sneers.

“Have you no honor at all, Greyjoy?”

“I don’t need none to fuck tavern girls,” Theon laughs, getting to his feet.

Jon rolls his eyes and claps his wooden blade against Theon’s shins to knock him back down, but Theon catches himself this time and taps the point of his own practice sword against Jon’s chest. 

“If too much honor is what keeps you from the joys of a good woman, Snow, I’m glad I only have just enough.”

“Oh, shut up, Greyjoy,” Robb shouts from where he’s observing their match at the edge of the courtyard. There’s a laugh in his voice, but it doesn’t show on his face.

Theon cackles, but there’s a quiet tickle of excitement at the back of his neck. Only Robb Stark would be jealous of a tryst he knew never happened.

Afterwards, the day is uneventful. Jon decidedly avoids Theon after drills, though Theon sees the bastard pouting sourly at him when they take supper. He’s since changed out of his practice clothes, into a tunic with a sturdier collar, but Theon still casually brushes his hand over the side of his throat, to make sure the bandage is covered entirely.

In the middle of the night, Theon starts at knock on his door. He hadn’t been asleep, though he’d assumed everyone else in the castle is by now. He’s in a loose-fit night shift and his breeches when he swings the door open, expecting Lord Stark or a servant, and his mouth falls open when Robb stares back at him. 

He recovers quickly, a smirk hiding the way his heart shivers under his ribs.

“Stark.”

“I wanted — to see you.”

He sounds nervous, and Theon steps aside. “Regarding what, little lord?”

Robb licks his lips. He’s so blatant in the way he’s staring at the bandage wrapped around the base of his throat that it makes Theon feel powerful. 

He glances over his shoulder before shuffling inside and closing Theon’s door behind him.

“You had it covered all day. Can I see?”

Theon moves to slide the bandage from his throat, but hesitates. Before he can think it through, he leaves it fastened and steps forward, bearing his throat to Robb. His pulse trips at Robb’s sharp inhale. His hands are shaking as he touches Theon’s neck and unwinds the wrapping. His touch is so careful it makes Theon’s vision swim.

“Maester Luwin says it won’t scar,” Theon mentions flippantly as the cloth falls away. He watches the cloud form in Robb’s eyes at that, and smiles. “You’d have to bite quite a bit harder, for that.” He takes a deep breath, preparing himself before letting the offer fall from his mouth. “Or — or use a blade.” 

Robb’s eyes snap to meet Theon’s, and Theon feels abruptly as if he’s pushed too far.

“A blade?”

Theon nods, stunned silent at the shock to Robb’s voice.

“I could never raise a blade to you, Theon.”

Theon tilts his head, trying to expose the injured skin along his neck. “Of course, not in anger,” he agrees gently. “Only — only while we’re playing.”

Robb narrows his eyes. “You would want that?”

His voice trembles over the question. He wants it, Theon knows he does. He’s terrified to admit it, feels dark and wrong for wanting to draw the blood of his closest friend. For wanting to hurt anyone, anything. It’s not what just lords want. It’s not what kind rulers do. Theon is lightheaded at the thought. Being that for Robb — the one he can hurt without remorse. He’d tear the heart from his chest if it was what Robb wanted.

“I would,” Theon admits plainly. “I want to do — whatever my lord asks of me.” The words nestle under Robb’s skin. Theon hears his breath freeze in his chest. “Do you — want to make it scar, m’lord?”

Robb pales. He edges closer to Theon, reaching up to brush his fingers over Theon’s throat. The touch makes the room spin, and Theon closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Robb is panting. 

“You must,” Theon whispers, his voice barely more than a beg. “Something — something anyone else I take to bed will see, m’lord. Something that they’d — they’d understand without ever really knowing.”

Fingers press gently against the bitemark at Theon’s neck. 

“This will fade, m’lord,” Theon insists quickly, “Perhaps a girl or two will see it, but if you want the — the whole North to know —” What is he saying?

The fingers at Theon’s throat squeeze, and Theon falls silent. There’s a stirring sensation in Theon’s gut, and he keens. Suddenly, all he can think is how badly he wants marks he can’t explain away. Wants Robb to hold him down and carve a direwolf sigil into his back. What would he tell Maester Luwin, then?

“You’re hard,” Robb says, voice slicing through the fog in Theon’s mind enough to humiliate him, skin buzzing with pleasure. “Is that what you want, Greyjoy? For the whole North to know?”

“I want you to cut me,” Theon admits, helpless. The grip on his throat tightens, and he gags, his eyes rolling back. Robb hasn’t even given him permission to touch himself and he already feels close to spilling in his breeches. “Gods please — please, m’lord. My blood belongs to you. I want to — want to bleed for you.”

Robb lets him go, and Theon sways, dropping back against the wall. “Do you —”

“I keep a hunting knife under — under my mattress,” Theon admits in a rush. 

Robb looks at him, startled. Perhaps it wasn’t on his mind. Perhaps he’d meant to ask something else entirely, but now he seems to have stopped short, unable to think of anything else. 

At the shock on his face Theon adds hesitantly, “You can — can’t ever be too careful, can you?” 

Rob ignores the question. “Go get it, then.” When Theon starts for his bed, Robb puts a hand on his shoulder and shoves down hard. “On your knees.”

Taken by surprise, Theon stumbles to the floor, and scrambles on his hands and knees over the slate to his bedside. He digs under his mattress for the long thin blade cloaked in a leather scabbard that Lord Stark had given him on his last nameday. He unsheathes it carefully, and sets the leather holster on his bed. When he turns back around, Robb hasn’t moved, staring blankly at him. He doesn’t seem to believe what he’s seeing. When Theon offers the knife out to him, Robb looks down at it.

“What do you want me to do, Greyjoy? Kill you?”

Theon shudders. He doesn’t answer. Robb clears the space between them in hurried strides and snatches the knife from his hands. As he looks down at it in his grip, hesitance settles on Robb’s face. For just a moment, Theon sees a flicker of panic.

“Just — just a little, m’lord,” Theon assures softly. “If it please you. Won’t hurt me much.”

Robb looks back down at Theon, still kneeling on the floor, and kneels down beside him. Automatically, Theon hunches closer to the ground.

“You want me to brand you like an animal, is that it?” 

Theon nods before he can stop himself. Robb looks down at the knife again, jaw set, and Theon feels guilty for asking. He had been wrong. Of course Robb doesn’t want to hurt him. He watches Robb struggle to steel himself before Theon finally reaches out and places his hand over the fingers clasped white-knuckled around the silver-inlaid hilt.

“Robb —” His voice is barely a rasp, worried he may not be allowed to be so familiar yet. “Look at me.”

Robb drops the knife and grabs Theon’s hair with both hands, rearing back and slamming him to the floor. Theon gasps, and Robb bows to sink his teeth into the other side of Theon’s neck, the undamaged side, sucking hard. Theon bucks against him, and Robb forces his shoulders down against the flagstone with both hands. He bites harder at Theon’s throat, grinding the flesh between his jaws for a second until Theon finally releases a soft whimper at the pressure.

When Robb pulls away, he’s panting, his full weight pressing Theon to the floor, and Theon feels like the quarry of a hunt. He doesn’t move, even when Robb stretches out and reaches for the knife left on the flagstone.

For a moment, Robb looks the knife over in his hand, and then presses the edge of the blade lightly against the side of Theon’s neck, tucked away from any vital veins. 

Dazed, Theon stares back at him, drinking in the awe on his face as his free hand rucks Theon’s nightshirt up to his arms.

“You’d — you’d let me?”

Theon swallows. The way the cool steel is pressed against his throat, he’s not sure he’s allowed to nod his head.

“I — I’d let my lord do as he wants.”

That does something to Robb. Churns his blood over hot. He gasps hard against Theon’s face. Theon can feel him trembling. He wants something, but he’s too green to understand what. Taking a steadying breath, Theon tilts his head, bearing his throat to the blade.

“I want — I want to do all that you ask of me.”

The knife clatters against the flagstone as Robb’s hand flies to the drawstring of his pants. When Theon tries to reach for him, Robb slaps his hands away.

“Don’t touch me.”

Theon throws his arms down over his head, eyes on Robb’s hand as he pulls his cock from his breeches and strokes himself, abrupt and rough. It brings attention to the strain in Theon’s pants, and he squirms, but Robb tugs his hair.

“No.”

With a shudder, Theon nods and stills. Robb stares down at him while his fist works over his cock. 

“You’d like anything I did to you?”

Lightheaded, Theon nods again. “Anything. Anything m’lord… wants.”

Without warning, Robb spits. It lands wet and warm on Theon’s cheek, sliding down toward his ear. The shame of it coils blazing under Theon’s navel, and he shivers. Blearily, he wishes there were someone else here to see them like this, Robb treating him like filth.

“That?” Robb asks harshly. “You liked that?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon murmurs. His voice comes out drunk. His limbs are like wet sand.

“ _Gods —_ ” Robb whispers, voice tight, “you’re so — you _want_ it.”

“I do, m’lord,” Theon slurs helplessly.

“I could’ve — cut you down to your navel,” Robb’s voice catches at the thought. Fingernails of his free hand scratch down Theon’s chest, miming the blade he’s dropped. For a split second, Theon can’t feel anything else. “And you would’ve — you would’ve _liked_ it.” 

Theon doesn’t think he manages to reply. He moans, and Robb leans close to his face. His breath is heaving, eyes dark. Theon blinks slowly, trying to look back at him. Robb hasn’t asked for it, but Theon can tell it’s what he wants. He only wants to do what Robb wants him to.

Their eyes meet, and Robb goes abruptly still as he spends himself onto Theon’s stomach. It lands hot and thick on Theon’s skin, and Theon whines, eyes going heavy. Robb is gaping down at him, eyes wide, and neither of them move.

At last, Robb’s hand falls from around his cock and hovers over Theon’s face. For a moment, it looks as if he’s going to touch his cheek, but instead he slides his fingers between Theon’s lips, watching unblinking as Theon licks them clean. Robb didn’t ask, but Theon wants it regardless. He loves the taste of him, the shame of it. His heart bursts for it. He feels drunk and warm and just wants to stay where he is now, lying on the floor underneath Robb Stark.

Too soon, Robb gets to his feet. 

“Do what you need to,” Robb tells him, his voice shaky, “and be quick about it.”

Theon nods, his body dragging as if swimming through honey. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Robb doesn’t scold him when he pulls his cock free from his breeches, so he must be allowed. It’s only a few pulls before he spills onto himself, but he barely feels it through the haze of pleasure left from Robb’s orgasm still drying on his stomach.

It’s silent for so long that Theon thinks for a moment Robb must have left him alone. When he turns his head toward the doorway he sees Robb staring at him. His eyes are dark, narrowed on Theon’s face.

“Clean yourself up,” Robb says, turning on his heel, “you’re filthy.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon whispers, but Robb is already gone.

The come is cool on his skin by the time Theon pushes himself onto his elbows. He’s still dizzy with the force of it as he looks down at himself, staring at the come on his skin. Robb had told him to clean it off, but as Theon sits there, still trembling on the floor, he doesn’t want to. It feels right, covered in filth this way. It’s how it should be, marked by Robb like a claimed bitch.

But Robb gave him an order. He should follow it.

It’s effort, to get to his feet, and he stumbles into the wash basin, his legs still shaking when he tries to walk. He drags a damp cloth over himself, shuddering at the pull of dried seed from the soft hairs on his stomach. He crawls back into bed as soon as he’s clean, asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Robb is strangely affectionate the next day. He takes every opportunity to touch Theon, even if it’s in front of Jon or the children. It’s nothing overt, nothing damning, just a casual hand on his shoulder or clapping over his back. In the courtyard, practicing archery with Jon, he briefly cups the back of Theon’s neck, fingers close to his bandaged bite mark. It’s not unpleasant, and certainly not unheard of. The others take no notice of it. Robb is always affectionate with his brothers, but Theon is left feeling oddly exposed.

He doesn’t question it, but when they’re traipsing alone near the First Keep that morning, Robb leans forward and kisses him. Theon sputters, shy for being out in the open, and Robb looks at his feet.

Before Theon can ask, Hodor marches past them with a barrel of apples picked for the horses under one arm. He waves at them.

“Hodor!” he calls excitedly. 

Robb smiles shakily and waves his hand. Theon wishes he could sink into the grass.

“I should go see if — if your lord father needs me,” Theon says quickly. As he darts away, he thinks he hears Robb call for him, but his face is far too pink to look back.

It’s silly, being timid about a chaste kiss after what they did the night before. What they’ve done over the past fortnights. Theon doesn’t bring it up when they sit down for lunch. When Robb touches him again, Theon lets himself lean into it. 

Robb does not try again to kiss him, when they’re not playing. 

They play more than they should, but not as much as Theon wants. Most nights, Theon is left alone to tug himself off at the few memories he has, or more often, the fantasies he hasn’t admitted out loud. One night, Theon dreams of Robb keeping him on the foot of his bed, knocking him to the floor every morning to suck his cock. It’s a vague thought in his head when he wakes to harsh morning light and birdsong, but when Robb next lets Theon suck his cock, he pretends he’d slept naked in the furs piled at Robb’s feet the night before.

Afterwards, sometimes, Robb will pet his hair. Seated on his bed with Theon on his knees in front of him, he’ll cradle Theon’s head in his lap and run his fingers through Theon’s sweaty curls. Especially whenever he chokes on Robb’s cock, or when his cheek burns red from how hard Robb slapped him. Theon likes that, too.

The day Lord Stark sends Robb to Cerwyn to meet with Lord Medger, Theon busies himself with minding the children to keep from feeling bored or lonely. As Robb grows, Lord Stark will send his heir on more of these councils in his own stead. The journey is short. The Cerwyns are loyal bannermen, and quite fond of Robb, and provide him steady practice for the responsibilities of lordship. They are not a house that would be quick to take anything their lord’s heir could do as a slight. They find Robb to be honest and proper, like they do Lord Stark. 

But still, Theon knows Robb will worry. He frets over his own capabilities, only ever worries when his father sends him alone, even if it’s only to speak to the most loyal bannermen to the Stark house. Theon expects Robb to come to him the very instant he returns from Castle Cerwyn, two days later. He usually does if they have spent days apart, even before they began their game, just to be near again. But Robb does not come to him at all when he arrives home, not even to tell him of his travel. He takes his dinner in his chambers, and Theon does not see him at all. 

Curious, Theon goes to find him, but when he knocks on Robb’s door, Robb doesn’t answer. Theon decides it’s not his place to pester him. The visit with Lord Cerwyn must have gone poorly. As much as he wishes, there’s nothing Theon can do to help that.

He tells himself Robb is not angry with him, that he has no reason to be, but in the back of his mind, there is panic. Perhaps Robb’s visit to Castle Cerwyn somehow brought the indecency of their game to light. Maybe Lord Cerwyn mentioned off-hand how his wife is his only woman, or perhaps brought up his ugly daughter’s spotless virtue. Northmen have pride in these things, and Theon is only stealing it away.

That night, Theon excuses himself to bed quickly after putting down the children.

He’s in the middle of dressing for bed when Robb enters his room unannounced. Half-dressed and taken aback, Theon stops and stares for a moment before he slowly gets to his knees. This is their game, it has to be. Robb would have knocked, otherwise.

At the sight, Robb tisks. “Have you no shame, Greyjoy? What kind of ironborn bends the knee before his lord has even commanded him?”

“None. I — I’m worthless, as an ironborn.” The answer comes from his mouth without consult of his mind, blood roiling under his skin at the thrill of shame. “I don’t deserve my titles, m’lord.”

“No,” Robb agrees softly, “you don’t.”

He’s standing over Theon in three quick strides. “On your feet.”

Hesitant, Theon stands. He keeps his head bowed.

“Look at me, you craven.”

Shivering, Theon looks up at him. Robb looks at him with contempt, and for an instant, Theon wants to ask what happened at Castle Cerwyn, but he knows better than to do so. That is not part of their game. Theon is not a friend, when they’re playing. He’s not an equal. He has no right to speak as one.

“M’lord —”

“Don’t speak to me.”

Theon nods silently, but Robb seems just as frustrated by his compliance. 

“How was such a weakling born of iron and salt?”

The indignity fills Theon’s head with warm fog. Forgetting himself, he answers, “I don’t know, m’lord.”

The sound of the slap rings out in the room before the sting of Robb’s hand burns across his face. The pain makes his body heavy, and Theon stumbles slightly, desperate to kneel.

“Perhaps you’re a bastard like my brother,” Robb muses darkly, cupping Theon’s chin, “not truly ironborn at all. Some thrall’s changeling who thinks he’s a prince.”

Such words should be considered treasonous. Spoken by anyone else, Theon would put an arrow through their heart without another thought. Spoken by Robb, Theon feels his knees tremble, helpless to hit the flagstone at Robb’s feet. Bastards belong on their knees, in the presence of lords.

“Gods, it’s a wonder we allow you to breathe.” It’s a bolt of pleasure through his gut, and Theon’s eyes roll back. Robb’s voice is a low hiss when he adds, “Perhaps we shouldn’t.”

Robb drops Theon’s chin and wraps both hands around his throat. It’s light, at first. Hesitant. Robb isn’t sure what he’s doing, and for just an instant, he’s scared. Scared of himself. Scared of what he could do. Scared for Theon. Theon doesn’t want him to be. Robb can kill him, if that’s what he wants. He tilts his head back, bearing his throat, and Robb’s grip tightens, all at once.

As the air wrings from his lungs, Theon’s heart beats wild against his ribs, pulsing in the back of his head. Panic grips him, just for a moment before the fear is swallowed by the heavy, oppressive heat of need. His cock twitches. It hasn’t been so much as brushed and Theon is so sure he’ll come at any second. He struggles to breathe and fails, vision fading at the edges as he gasps against the grip of Robb’s hands. 

Instinctively, his hands reach for the ones around his throat, and Robb drops him instantly.

His feet no longer support him and Theon crumples to the floor. The pain of hitting the flagstone mixes with the rush of air to his brain and he whines, writhing at Robb’s feet. Robb takes a step away from him.

“Gods, you’re pathetic.”

“I know, m’lord,” Theon gasps without thinking.

Robb kneels, helping Theon upright. He takes hold of his wrist and boldly presses his hand to the bulge in Theon’s own pants, letting him rut against the pressure. It’s hopelessly degrading, and Theon can’t hold back long enough to wait for Robb to order him. As he spills over himself, hot and tacky in his pants, he expects Robb to hit him. He should have waited.

Instead, Robb gasps, eyes wide as Theon falls apart. When Theon’s free hand falls to hold him up against the floor, Robb pulls away. Panting, Theon meets his eyes.

“M’lord, please —” Robb is panting, too, and Theon’s eyes find the line of his cock hard against his leg. “Please, let me — let me suck your cock, I want —”

Robb stands and pulls his cock from his breeches. Theon opens his mouth expectantly, but Robb shakes his head.

“No,” he says, voice brittle, “just be still.”

Theon does as he’s told, and Robb strokes himself, cock so close to Theon’s mouth that Robb’s knuckles brush against Theon’s lips as his hand slides over the tip. When he comes, it lands haphazardly across Theon’s face, and Robb watches him, eyes wide. Theon’s tongue drags tentatively over the edge of his bottom lip and comes back with the taste of bitter salt. Robb lets out a breath like a wheeze. He doesn’t blink, and Theon wonders if he’s allowed to lick away the rest.

Without a word, Robb leans forward and presses a kiss to Theon’s forehead. His lips are still pressed to his skin when he lets out a shaky breath, and Theon shuts his eyes. 

Robb doesn’t pull away for several seconds, just crouches over him. When he does, his eyes are on the floor. He says nothing when he turns and leaves Theon’s room.

Theon’s whole body feels out of focus. Warm and soft, like through the steaming water in the springs. It’s effort to stand, enough that Theon has to stumble to the wall for support as he washes himself in the basin by his door. Even as he rinses the mess from his clothes, Theon feels himself smiling. Robb wasn’t angry with him at all. He just wanted to play. 

The next day, they are no longer playing. At breakfast, Theon is free to ask how the visit to Lord Cerwyn’s castle faired. 

He’s unsurprised when Robb’s answer starts with a long, heavy sigh.

“Well, perhaps it’s nothing, Father’s surely said nothing of it, but my past few visits to Castle Cerwyn have lead me to believe Lord Cerwyn would like me to wed his daughter, when she comes of age.”

Theon’s not quite sure when that would be. The Starks have the Cerwyns to dine with them often enough, but Theon has never spared interest in Jonelle Cerwyn. She’s far too skinny, lacking in any of the curves that make a woman worthwhile enough to look at. Sometimes curves fill in with age, though. It’s possible Robb will be a lucky man, in the end.

“She’s not so bad, I suppose,” Theon tries gamely, but Robb just continues to pout. Perhaps he means Theon to be jealous, but Theon is afraid to try it, in case he’s wrong. “What’s so unbearable about her, then?”

Robb shrugs. 

He’s too kind a man to be disappointed in her flat breasts or coltish smile as a reason not to want her. He’s kinder about that sort of thing. But Robb looks at his parents, the deep and honest affection they hold for each other, and is green enough to think they’ve been that way from the start. People should just fall madly in love on sight, he thinks. He hasn’t realized yet that it’s just work, like anything else.

“Would it be so bad, then?” Theon continues when Robb won’t answer him further.

“I wouldn’t know,” he grumbles. “She’s afraid of me, I think. Every time we’re in the same room she runs and hides with her handmaids. How am I supposed to make heirs with a woman who can’t even bear to be near me?”

Theon laughs. “Plenty of families manage that well enough, Robb.”

Snorting, Robb gives Theon a playful shove, but he seems less troubled when Theon looks at him again. The question is on the tip of his tongue, but he knows better than to ask it. _Do you have someone else in mind?_

The two of them don’t often speak of marriage. It had always seemed something so far off in the distance that it was no use thinking about, like winter. Theon doesn’t like to think of it. But they are both reaching the age, Theon some years ago. He’s not sure Lord Stark would even allow it of him, perhaps worried Theon may produce another heir to the Greyjoy name before his father died. Even if he did, Theon wouldn’t want to rear a child as a hostage. It’s no sort of life for a child, he knows. 

Lord Stark had spoken of it in passing, once, on Sansa’s tenth nameday, when ravens started coming in with possible matches for her when she comes of age. Theon hadn’t said anything, but he’d always hoped Sansa might be promised to him one day, to join him to the Stark house once and for all. Lord Stark seemed to tell it in his face as he read through the different overtures, because he waved them all aside for another day and said in a firm, honest voice, “You’ll find a fine northern bride one day, Lord Greyjoy.”

Privately, Theon lets himself assume that might still be Sansa.

There were no sorts promises, on Robb’s tenth nameday. Lavish gifts from various lords, apparently as far back as the announcement of his birth. But as the heir of Winterfell, it’s Lord Stark’s decision, who goes to him and when. Theon doubts it will be Jonelle Cerwyn. She’s a bannerman’s daughter. There is no advantage to that. When he says as much to Robb, it seems to ease his worries. 

Theon assumes that will be the end of such talk, but as they ride down to winter town to busy themselves with mead, Robb asks, “Do you think Father will match _you_ to someone, as well?”

“I suppose he can try,” Theon laughs, with a shrug. 

Robb laughs as well, but it’s short-lived, and he tilts his head. “Would you stay here, with your bride? Raise your heirs in Winterfell alongside mine?”

That tickles something at the back of Theon’s skull. He shrugs again, this time looking at the road ahead, rather than Robb.

“Want my sons to marry your daughters already, Stark?” he jabs. “You haven’t even got any, yet.”

“It’ll be my sons marry your girls, I’d imagine,” Robb winks. “Your luck, you’ll marry a girl who’ll give you five daughters to raise.”

Theon scoffs. “Northern bride or no, she’ll only be my rock wife. If she gives me a thousand daughters it won’t matter. I’ll still have my pick of sons from all my salt wives, in the end. I’ll have no shortage of heirs.”

At that, Robb frowns. He’d forgotten ironborn custom, it seems. Finally, he grumbles, “Not even you can make a _thousand_ daughters, Greyjoy.”

That night, Robb comes to him again. They don’t usually tempt fate by playing two nights in a row, but Theon won’t rail against it. He’d missed having Robb in the castle, even just to speak to. 

Though Robb knocks this time, there’s still no hesitation in their game. He grabs for Theon the moment the door’s latched, ripping his shirt over his head and pushing him back against the bed. When Theon yelps, Robb climbs on top of him, pinning his arms into the furs. The weight of him sinks Theon back, pushing him still. Something soaks into him, deep and heavy, and his eyes flutter. 

“Look at me,” Robb snarls.

Theon drags his eyes open, unfocused and dizzy. Robb stares down at him, wild and angry, and sinks his teeth into Theon’s neck, where he’d drawn blood before and nearly healed by now, and locks his jaw against his throat. The pain ignites and sears from Theon’s shoulder to his skull, and he goes limp. Robb groans, rolling his hips against the thigh Theon works in between his legs.

Shivering, Theon twists his hands in Robb’s grip and whimpers when Robb only holds them tighter. They don’t say a word to each other. Theon’s not sure he’s allowed to speak. He doesn’t want to, suddenly. Perhaps he’ll never speak again unless Robb asks him to. He wants Robb to break his skin again, to rip flesh from his throat enough to leave a mark, but Robb pulls away before he’s even done enough for a lasting sting.

“Maybe my father won’t allow you a bride,” Robb says finally. “Maybe you’re doomed to chastity until your own father dies. Perhaps by then you’ll be too old to raise sons at all.”

Real fear twists with arousal as Robb speaks. Left forgotten in the North, living as Robb’s squire until he’s old and gray. He could die before his father, knowing Balon. 

Smiling, Theon manages, “Is this — chastity, m’lord?”

He’s not sure if it’s punishment or pride that has Robb biting at his throat again, but it’s the reaction he wanted.

Robb doesn’t let go of Theon’s hands, or let his own wander. He doesn’t come, nor does he allow Theon to. Only mouths along his throat, writhing against Theon’s body. It feels as if he’s stuck. When he releases Theon’s neck again, Robb is panting hard against his skin. For a moment, there’s silence.

“Do you — want my knife, m’lord?” Theon ventures.

“Shut up.”

It’s odd, something in-between their game and simply what they’re like when they aren’t playing. It’s not unpleasant, but it leaves Theon unsure of how to respond. 

It’s Robb who breaks the silence. “Are you — are you hard?”

Theon nods, breathless. “Yes, m’lord.”

“Good,” Robb growls, crawling off of him. The loss of weight is startling. “Stay that way.”

Theon sits up, heat like molten gold pouring through his veins. “Wh — what?”

“You heard me,” Robb grumbles, adjusting himself in his own breeches. “You — I’m telling you not to touch yourself. Not to do anything. I’ll know, if you do.”

There’s no way he can know, Theon thinks wildly, but the idea of doing as Robb asked is more thrilling than the idea of fucking his own hand. He nods.

“Yes, m’lord.”

Robb isn’t paying attention to him, as if it doesn’t even matter. As if Theon doesn’t even matter. Theon gets shakily to his feet. He can’t just leave. He can’t leave without giving Theon _something._ He doesn’t want to come, not if Robb won’t allow it, but his brain is buzzing, helpless to serve.

Perhaps he isn’t fit to make ironborn heirs at all.

“May — may I suck your cock, m’lord?” He stumbles a little, the sting of shame making him dizzy. “Let me do that for you. Let me be of use. I won’t — I won’t come, I swear it.”

Robb looks up then, and Theon drops to his knees. He crawls forward on his hands and knees to close the distance between them and whispers, “Please, m’lord.”

Instead of answering, Robb unlaces his own breeches. “It’s spoiling you, really,” Robb says as Theon waits for permission. He hadn’t been allowed, the night before. “Sometimes I think you like this more than when you get to come yourself.”

It’s a jolt at the back of his neck, hearing it aloud. He does, to his great shame, but he’s afraid to say so. Robb may not allow him to, if he knows. 

“Get on with it, then,” Robb snaps.

Theon pounces, a well-trained dog waiting for the whistle before feasting. Robb is already so hard and heavy on his tongue, he won’t last long. Theon looks up at him through lidded eyes, the way his body jerks and swoons against the sensation of Theon swallowing him down. Robb hisses pleasure through his teeth and Theon keens, dragging his tongue over the shaft of Robb’s cock. Hips rolling, Robb grabs a handful of Theon’s hair, and he gags, helpless. 

Letting his jaw fall slack, Theon takes it as Robb grasps his hair in rough fistfuls and slams his hips forward. His eyes slide closed. He can hardly breathe. He whines, his mind falling into something warm and deep and calm. 

Robb comes with a stifled shout, biting hard on his own knuckle. Gagging as he tries to swallow with Robb’s cock still in his mouth, Theon squeezes his hands into fists. Robb shudders and shoves him away. Theon slumps against the floor, down on his arms. It takes a moment for him to regulate his breath, to remember how to move. His limbs feel numb as they fumble to hold him up. When Theon manages to look him in the face, Robb’s eyes are dark, pinned on him. He’s unsure how long he’s been staring.

“Thank you, m’lord.”

Robb’s face softens, just for an instant, before his scowl recovers. “You’re still not — allowed to come. Don’t think I’m going to let you just because you did that for me.”

“No, m’lord. Of course not,” Theon answers, feeling warm. Happy, somehow, at the command. “I know that.”

Despite himself, Robb helps Theon pour himself into bed before leaving, slamming the door behind him. Theon’s cock is throbbing and hard against his leg, but he won’t touch himself, even as the need becomes uncomfortable, as the warm pride of satisfying Robb starts to fade.

Robb told him not to.

It’d be so easy, just to clean up after. But he won’t.

Robb told him not to.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but a lot happens! So I hope it kinda evens out, there.

Theon dreams that night of crawling after Robb like a dog throughout the castle, crouching obediently at his feet when Robb takes his seat at the table in the Great Hall, being fed his scraps, receiving visitors. He wakes before dawn, shaking and hard, and finds himself helpless for Robb’s attention that next morning, pushing close to him whenever they’re alone, whimpering pathetically at the slightest touch. Robb watches him squirm with wide eyes, drinking him in all morning long.

“Are you like this any time you haven’t spilled your seed like a mindless beast?” Robb hisses, shoving him away as if someone will see. 

They’re tucked away in the hotsprings, alone after their lessons. No one is anywhere near, but Theon likes it, being treated as if there is.

“I — could be, I suppose,” Theon laughs a little breathlessly, swimming back from Robb as if he’d been asked to. “I’ve never — stopped from finishing, before.”

Robb’s eyes light up at that. He looks him over, smile flickering on his face. He stares at Theon a long while before finally turning away. “Gods, the serving girls are right, always gossiping about what a pig you are.”

His tone is teasing, off-handed as he shuts his eyes to the warmth of the pools. If it hadn’t taken Robb so long to say it, Theon would have thought nothing of it.

“Aye, they might be,” he replies as boldly as he can. “But they’re right about my cock being worth it, as well.”

Robb chuckles, cracking open an eye to look at him. “Is that so? Never heard that part.”

Glaring, Theon splashes him. Robb laughs and shakes the water dripping from his curls. It always stirs something in Theon, that laugh. 

The next time Robb has Theon on his knees, he asks in an almost casual voice, “What do you think the serving girls would say about my cock, Greyjoy? _You_ certainly seem to love it as much as your own.”

He hasn’t even taken it out from his breeches yet, but he’s stroking himself lazily, through the linen. Watching intently, Theon nods, too consumed with the need to have his mouth around Robb to use it to speak. 

When Robb stares back at him expectantly, he manages, “Yes, m’lord.”

Robb tisks. “I know that if you were to gossip with the serving girls like a dim slut they’d all forget about what’s kept in your own pants.”

Theon nods again. “They would, m’lord.”

It sparks something deep in Theon, to know even if he could gossip of what Robb does to him, Robb would never stick it in a serving girl. Only ever down Theon’s throat, where he won’t father any bastards or worry of his own father hearing word. Robb would never trust the serving girls. Not as he does Theon.

The next day, Arya is laid in bed with a cough. It’s not much more than an irritation to the girl, but Lady Stark is a woman made of iron until any of her children fall ill. Robb is left tending to his mother’s worries well into the night as she fusses over an uncontrollable sick child. Maester Luwin does his best to calm them both. He mixes Arya a medicinal tea to have with every meal and orders her to rest or else he will not lend her copies of his histories to read. Theon doesn’t think he’s ever seen the poor old maester so weary. 

Lord Stark does his best to tend to his wife's worries, as well. 

“Arya is the strongest of our children. A summer cough will bring her no harm,” he tells her calmly at dinner, two nights into her daughter’s sickness. “She could come down with Greyscale and heal herself from sheer stubbornness.”

It’s meant, of course, to ease her fear, but at the mention of Arya falling ill with Greyscale, Lady Stark only leaves the table, insistent to check on her daughter. Frustrated, Lord Stark sighs. Theon would laugh, if not for the pained look on Robb’s face, as he watches his mother go. Lady Stark frets so that even Arya begins to believe that she is sicker than she is. It isn’t often she believes she’s sick at all.

It’s clear that Robb is frustrated with his mother’s panicking, but he does not come to Theon in the evenings. Their game is at a halt. He assumes Robb is far too tired by the time he retires to his room.

Arya, scrappy thing that she is, is fine in a matter of days.

It isn’t often that Theon goes to Robb’s room to play, not since the first time when it was still new and strange. There’s something daunting, formidable, about doing such odd things in the heir’s quarters. Theon doesn’t belong there. At any rate, Theon doesn’t like to go to Robb — as if he’s the one in charge of their game. But with Arya falling ill, Theon has noticed it in Robb. Tension in his back, an untamed growl to all his words. He is unfocused in their lessons and aggressive in their drills. He snaps at everyone, even Theon, even Jon. He needs their game, even if he doesn’t realize it.

When Theon shows up at Robb’s door, he’s greeted with a grin.

“Theon,” Robb says, beaming as he steps aside. “What — what is it?”

It’s an uncertain excitement, as Theon steps into Robb’s room, and he lingers just past the door. He hasn’t been in Robb’s chambers past nightfall since that first time. It feels forbidden, and it gives him a silly thrill, like he’s snuck somewhere he’s not supposed to be. His eyes track the room, over the new fire roaring in Robb’s hearth, to the book left open on his desk. The candle beside it is lit, melting over the corner of the desk against the wall. He’d lost himself in reading, again.

“Theon? Is something the matter?”

Has he not spoken at all? Theon swallows, glancing to Robb’s undisturbed furs on the opposite side of the room before looking back at him. His face is soft, curious, and Theon stares up at him. It’s been too long, since they’ve stood this close.

“I only wanted to — to check on you. You seem burdened, these past few days.” When Robb squints in suspicion, Theon clears his throat. It’s been almost a fortnight. Perhaps he’s forgotten. “M’lord.”

Light sparks in Robb’s eyes, and Theon sees his hand flinch, on the door.

“Oh —” He coughs. 

Glancing out into the hallway, making sure they’re not seen, Robb shuts and latches the door. Theon is still mostly in the doorway, and Robb leans incredibly close as he pushes his weight into the door. His breath is already short against Theon’s face, excited. The fire in the room casts him in a warm, rosy glow, and he looks so beautiful. Theon feels a smile on his face. He tries to bite it back, knowing it’s not part of their game, but Robb’s eyes are sparkling, and Theon feels it light and airy in his chest.

Abruptly, Robb closes the distance between them, devouring Theon’s mouth, hands reaching up to grab his hair. Starved for it, Theon keens against his mouth, reaching up to grasp both hands into the collar of Robb’s tunic. He trips back as Robb leads him up against his door, pushing him hard into the wood. His heart picks up in his chest, and he feels Robb smirk against the kiss as if he knows. The rush to Theon’s head makes him bold, and he nips playfully at Robb’s mouth, standing on his toes. He wants to take everything Robb has to offer, wants to be swallowed by his raw ferocity and need. Robb growls and does it back, holding him still by his hair, greedy and demanding. Theon pants into the kiss. 

“Shh, it’s alright,” Robb murmurs, breaking away from Theon long enough to take a breath. 

Theon doesn’t want to take a breath. Part of him never wants to breathe again if it keeps away from Robb’s touch. He struggles to pull his nightshirt from his shoulders with shaking fingers. When he finally manages, he keeps eye contact with Robb and drops it to the floor. Robb removes nothing, only taking hold of him again, reclaiming his mouth.

For a moment, Robb holds him against the door, fingers roaming over Theon’s skin, but when Theon whimpers at the feel of his hands against his ribs, Robb pulls away.

“Get down.”

“Gods, yes.” 

Theon drops to his knees without hesitation. It’s what he’s supposed to do, when they’re playing. Robb likes to make it last, to have Theon on his knees until he aches before going any further. Theon lives for it, watching the fire grow in Robb’s eyes before they even touch. Just being on his knees for Robb makes his lord happy, makes him hard. Theon can see the ridge in Robb’s breeches even now, before Theon has even moved to unlace him. He’s not permitted. Robb will tell him when he wants that. 

Robb knots a fist in Theon’s hair and holds him down against the floor. Without being told, Theon sinks onto his stomach. It’s calming and solid, and Theon’s eyes slide shut as Robb holds him still. He can feel his cock hard against his leg, burning hot on his skin. He wants to let himself be possessed by Robb’s need. He keens, desperate to thrust against the flagstone floor, but Robb hasn’t given him permission for that, either. He’s to remain still until his lord commands it.

“So obedient, my ironborn slut,” Robb murmurs into his ear.

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon groans into the floor.

“Our darling captive, come to tend to my wants.”

Theon gasps. It’s sick, to hear Robb say the word.

“Is this what it means to be my family’s ward to you?”

It’s jarring, and Theon’s eyes blink open. “Wh — what?”

“Why should I be the only one to get to use you if you belong to all of us? My father took you as a prize of war. Would you have done this for my lord father, Greyjoy? Plan on doing it for my brothers when they’re of age?”

Theon’s chest seizes, body going cold. This must stop. It’s not enjoyable anymore. “N — no — gods,” he says, jerking slightly in Robb’s grip. “No, m’lord — I would never want—”

Robb’s eyes flash, and Theon is cornered, swallowing hard. 

“I — wouldn’t…” 

There’s a pang stabs in his chest. Is that what this is to Robb? If Theon had been anyone else, any other boy sworn to his family, would Robb use him the same? Did it not matter to Robb who he was? Jealousy mixes with the sting of rejection and clench his throat too tight to breathe. He has to be different. This has to mean something more. Robb has to want Theon, not just any willing boy he can find. Panic blooms under Theon’s skin. Is that all this is to _Theon?_ Would he do this, had he not been taken by the Starks? Would he still want these things from Robb if his life weren’t at stake? Would he want him at all? 

Reeling, Theon sits up, fighting Robb’s grip, teeth clenched hard in his jaw. He struggles to breathe before he speaks.

“I wouldn’t. Not unless you — not unless my lord asked it of me.”

Robb eyes him, sensing the change in Theon’s composure, but unable to place it. “I find that hard to believe,” he says finally. “It doesn’t have to be me who asks, does it? All of us could have you if we thought to do it. You’d have no choice but to obey any of us.”

Rage burns through Theon’s skin and he rips away from Robb’s hold. He moves so quickly that it burns his scalp, strands of hair torn from his head. “You shouldn’t shame your lord father to think he’d want this of me. What would your mother say if she heard you?” 

Robb blinks, startled. Theon has to fill the silence when the shame of it turns to ice in his blood. 

“Your brothers are _children_ , Robb. I held them in my arms when they were born. How could I ever want this from _them?_ ”

“No, I had only meant...” Robb doesn’t say what he’d meant. He hadn’t meant anything other than the words he said.

Humiliated, Theon feels the threat of tears sting at his eyes and gets to his feet. “I am ward of the Starks, not some rented whore for your family.”

“Theon —”

He can’t hit him, as much as he wants to. Gods, he wants to. 

“Your _brothers,_ ” Theon repeats, disgusted. The room is spinning. He doesn’t feel as if he’s in his own skin anymore. His body doesn’t feel in his control. It’s almost a dream. He’s disconnected, frayed at the seams. He sees his hand grabbing his discarded nightshirt off the floor, but he can’t feel anything. “They’re so — _small._ ”

He thinks he may be sick. He pulls the linen shirt over his head and tries to think of what he can possibly say. “Rickon’s just barely learned to _walk._ ”

When he looks up, Robb’s mouth is hanging open, eyes wide. This isn’t what he expected, cleary. That only infuriates Theon further. How could Robb not have expected this? How could he think that Theon would just fall to his knees for any Stark, as if they’re all the same? 

“Theon, gods, I’m — I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant it like… Don’t cry —”

His hand cracks across Robb’s face so suddenly that for an instant, Theon doesn’t realize he’s moved at all. Fear swallows him in a heartbeat. Robb could execute him for that — and what’s to say he wouldn’t, anymore? — but Robb’s expression isn’t angry. Even as he rubs tenderly at his jaw, he looks infuriatingly understanding.

“Theon...”

Hands shaking, Theon turns and flees Robb’s room. Robb doesn’t follow him, but Theon still runs, slamming his door behind him as if having to hurry to keep him out. He wraps his arms around his stomach and shivers, a chilly mix of residual arousal and disgust mingling uncomfortably. 

He sits against his door, part of him hoping to hear Robb’s tentative knock, but it never comes. As Theon slips into his bed, he tells himself it’s what he wanted.

The next morning, Theon’s head is pounding as if he’d had too much wine the night before. He feels as if he may be sick. He doesn’t rouse from bed until Lord Stark comes to his door. He looks Theon over curiously — he’s usually an early riser. He asks if Theon is feeling alright, and the question strangles Theon with the threat of tears. After the things Robb said, he can’t bear to look Lord Stark in the eye.

“I’m fine, my lord,” he answers quietly. “Trouble getting to sleep, is all.”

Lord Stark gives him an apologetic nod. Theon swallows back the taste of bile. He can’t stand to have Lord Stark here now. Not after the things Robb said. 

If Lord Stark has further suspicions, he has the grace not to pester Theon with them. He gives Theon a gentle clap on the shoulder that he struggles not to flinch under. He can’t let Lord Stark know it has anything to do with him. He’d never understand. He’s only ever been a good and honest warden. He asks for Theon to ready his trueborn sons for a visit to the sept, Septa Mordane already readying the girls. Theon wakes the little ones first, helping the nursemaid dress little Rickon and carrying him in his arms on his way to Bran’s room. He waits to fetch Robb last, dragging his feet down the hall to reach his door. Sansa is old enough to lead the others to their mother’s sept on her own, but Theon keeps the little one at his hip. Sansa could have taken Rickon with her, but keeping him nearby might deter any of Robb’s foolhardy attempts at speaking of last night.

When Robb answers the door, he looks ragged, as if he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes are rimmed red, and he regards Theon with uncertain alarm. Theon drops his gaze instantly.

“Your father says you’re to join your lady mother at the sept this morning.”

He doesn’t look at Robb at all as he speaks. Silence settles over them when Robb doesn’t respond. Theon should apologize for striking him, but instead he craves an apology himself, for the things Robb said. He’s furious, but ashamed of it. He shouldn’t be angry. He has no right, as a hostage. He sees that now. He was a fool for ever thinking he was anything different, no matter what Robb crooned to him during their sick little indulgences. Disgrace and scorn simmers inside him and Theon swallows, feeling like a silly tarnished maid. He’s lucky Robb hasn’t had his head for what they’ve already done, or told his lord father to have him do so.

Always more foolhardy than sense, Robb tries anyway, “Theon…”

Rickon’s presence is not enough to keep the shame from Robb’s voice or expression. The child hasn’t even had his fourth nameday, he’s not nearly aware enough to deter conversation. Theon should’ve convinced Bran to stay with him, as well, though he’s not much older.

 _“Plan on doing it for my brothers when they’re of age?”_ Theon’s throat is tight.

“I wouldn’t delay,” Theon says bitterly, handing over Rickon with enough force to make him squeal with unconcerned giggles. “You have plenty to ask forgiveness for.”

It’s too far, and Robb’s eyes flicker with anger. He takes little Rickon to his chest, cupping his tiny head against his neck to cover his eyes and ears as gently as he can.

“And what of _your_ sins, Greyjoy?”

A curse bites at Theon’s tongue, but he stays quiet for the child’s sake. Instead he scowls at Robb and shoulders past him without a word out of the hall toward the courtyard. He has other duties Lord Stark will want him for.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry this was a little late - I'm working late all week with a cold :< BUT NO WORRIES, THE NEXT CHAPTER IS HERE!

Theon is outside, fetching water from the well for Lord Stark’s washing when Jon finds him, eyeing him in that grim, silent way he does.

Theon turns his back and pretends to not have noticed him.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jon asks after looming for a moment. 

As blunt as the question is, his voice is almost genuine, curious, and Theon is instantly suspicious. 

“What’s it matter to you?” he snaps, hauling the pail of water. “Did the lordling send you to do his apologizing again?” 

Jon frowns, and there’s a tug of shame at Theon’s chest, abruptly foolish. He shouldn’t have given so much away. If Jon hadn’t known already that he and Robb are at odds, he does now. Ready to take Robb’s side without a word from Theon, just as he always does.

Jon sneers, and brushes a lock of black hair out of his eyes. “What is it you two are fighting about _now?_ ”

“Nothing that should matter either way to you, bastard.” Theon glares at him. 

Rolling his eyes, Jon crosses his arms over his chest. “He’s my brother.”

“Aye, and so what? Perhaps he’ll be mine, too, when I’m wed to Sansa one day,” Theon says pointedly. “More mine than yours, after that.”

There’s a shadow of panic on Jon’s face, and Theon seizes on it. 

“Once I’m Robb’s brother by law it’ll only be a quick suggestion or two before you’re banished to the Wall for the rest of your days. Seeing as Sansa doesn’t much care for you either. And I’ll have the ear of them both.”

He expects that to scare Jon off finally, but instead, Jon only tisks. “Father would never promise Sansa to you. And I doubt Robb will trust your counsel if these little spats of yours keep up for much longer, Greyjoy. Maybe he isn’t so impressed with your coarseness and filthy jokes now that he’s almost a man grown. Perhaps he’ll send us both to the Wall, to be brothers ourselves. Now tell me, what have you done to upset him?”

That isn’t fair. It’s not Theon’s fault, this time. But it doesn’t matter to any of them, even if he could tell them, even if he could explain himself. It never matters. Robb will always have all of them on his side. His father and mother and Jon. The children. Jory and Rodrik. None of them would ever think twice before siding against the ward. Not even the little ones. The ones Robb seemed so ready to give Theon to, the same way Robb had used him. And Theon won’t be able to refuse them. Robb will banish him to the Wall like a useless bastard if he tries. He’d compared Theon to the bastard once, when they were playing. The shame had felt like lightning then, thrilling and dangerous, but now it only curdles in Theon’s memory. Perhaps to Robb, there was never any difference. 

It occurs to Theon that Robb could even have him do the same for Jon. To drop to his knees and suck the bastard’s cock as he’d done for Robb, just to humiliate him. And Theon would have to, if Robb asked. He’d have no choice.

It must show on Theon’s face, because when Jon speaks again, his voice has softened. Curious, almost worried. “Greyjoy?” he asks — as if he may care, if even just a little. “What is it you’ve done?”

There’s a sharp stab under his ribs, and Theon’s face hardens. His eyes sting, and he storms past Jon before he can see his expression. 

“Mind your place, Snow.”

When Lady Catelyn returns from the sept with her children, Theon makes himself scarce. He avoids Robb easily — and Robb doesn’t seek him out either — but it’s a warm and sunny day, and the little ones find their way under his feet as he tries to keep to tasks in the courtyard and armoury. Theon can’t bear to look at any of them. It’s even hard to meet Lady Catelyn’s eyes, the things Robb said about her lord husband the night before still ringing in his head every time he tries.

If anyone notices him acting strangely, no one mentions it. When Lord Stark asks Theon to put Rickon down in the nursery for an afternoon nap, Theon has to swallow the tension in his throat before he nods. 

Little Rickon has always taken to him moreso than the other young children. Shortly after Rickon was born, after Lady Stark was recovered and all the trueborn Starks had the chance to meet him, Lord Stark offered Theon to hold the squirming new baby swaddled in linen. Theon remembers the hesitant smile on Lord Stark’s face as he placed the little bundle in Theon’s arms. When Theon held him, Rickon had chirped and wriggled a fat little hand free of his swaddling. Spirited from the first, he had wound his little hands in Theon’s hair, tugging happily. Theon had joked as he untangled himself that the youngest children of the families must have a bond. 

Holding him now, Rickon curls against Theon’s chest as he walks him to the nursery. Little Rickon is a wild thing, except when he isn’t. Exhausted from his racing about the castle walls, he’s already dozing. His head lolls onto Theon’s shoulder.

_“Plan on doing it for my brothers, when they’re of age?”_

The memory jolts him, and Rickon stirs, fussing. Absently, he reaches up to pat Rickon’s auburn curls. There’s a gentle, young servant girl turning down Rickon’s little bassinet when Theon enters. She bows at him and reaches to take the baby from his hands. Theon holds him up, but Rickon’s stubby fingers grasp at Theon’s tunic. His little face is scrunched with a yawn, and Theon freezes, unable to let go of him. The boy may look quite a bit like Robb, when he’s older. All of them — save Arya — have Lady Catelyn’s hair and cheekbones, her bright blue eyes. Rickon has them, just as Robb does.

Cold weight settles in Theon’s chest. He feels dirty, sick. The servant girl is staring at him, confused, still holding out her arms. Can she tell what he’s thinking? Can she see it on his face?

“Lord Greyjoy?” she asks gently, “I can take the little lordling, it’s alright.”

Theon pushes Rickon into her arms, unable to swallow around the lump in his throat. His eyes sting. He can’t speak. He gives the servant girl a nod and rushes out, shutting the door behind him before bolting down the hallway. He can’t breathe, heart pounding. In an hour he’ll be needed again. Wake the baby, bring him to his mother.

_“Is this what it means to be my family’s ward to you?”_

It’s not fair. It’s not fair that Robb has put these wicked thoughts into his head. This isn’t what he wanted. It isn’t what he planned. He wants _Robb._ He has to. Robb is good and kind and so, so beautiful. It’s hard to imagine Theon wouldn’t want him. But the thought still skirts around his mind; that he may only want what he does because it keeps him alive. It keeps him safe, makes him irreplaceable to Robb. But it all seems less important than whether or not Robb wants _him_ at all. Last night, he’d seemed so eager to pass Theon to anyone else. But why? Robb had wanted him, he’s sure of it. Looking back now, it’s so easy to see. He had been jealous of Kyra, of Ros. He hadn’t liked talk of them, before. He’d wanted Theon — had wanted him all to himself. Theon is sure of it. 

But then why would he say such things? Why does Robb want to humiliate him? Why does this shameful thing make him sick when everything else had only excited him?

Theon’s made it all the way back to the courtyard before he hears his name.

“Theon?” Robb’s voice is like a whipcord snapping through Theon’s spine. He turns to see Robb wringing his hands. Good. He should be miserable. “Can — can we talk for a moment?”

“I’m quite busy,” Theon says coldly and continues on. 

Robb doesn’t follow him as he walks away.

Theon isn’t busy at all. Even if he were, he can’t focus on anything. His hands are cold, his body heavy. He can’t stand to look at anyone. They can all see him, see what a monster he is. They can all tell. He hides away in the godswood for the afternoon. The Lord and Lady don’t find him, and Theon loses track of his responsibilities. He only remembers that he should’ve woken Rickon when it’s hours too late, when he sees Bran playing with him in the courtyard. The servant girl must’ve woken him. Theon’s thankful someone did.

He spends the rest of the day avoiding Robb. Avoiding all of them, as much as he can. Lord Stark doesn’t need much from him, and the others are easy to stay clear of as the day cools and the torches are lit. As much as he wants to hole up in his room he knows that’s the first place Robb will look for him and corner him. 

He loiters near the smithy, watching the apprentices work the bellows until Mikken shoos him away. After he slinks down to the kitchens and tries to flirt with a few of the pretty young bakers but finds he only feels lecherous and awkward. He leaves soon after.

Usually, Theon keeps out of the stables. He is skilled at riding, but the upkeep of horses is tedious and dirty. They have stable boys to bother with the hardships, and Theon is a lord’s son. He’s too good for the stink and mess of the stables. But Robb won’t think to look for him here, so when Lord Stark dismisses him after dinner, Theon takes to brushing his horse and feeding him the bruised apples from Hodor’s harvest. His mood isn’t a very well-kept secret, and the stable boys eventually leave him to himself rather than get snapped at. It’s all well and good for Theon. The only ones in the castle he doesn’t want to hit right now are the horses.

When he hears footsteps crunching in the hay behind him, he assumes it’s one of the stable boys forced back inside for one reason or another, and pays no mind, feeding his horse another apple.

“I’m sorry,” says a tender voice behind him, and Theon jumps so suddenly that his horse huffs, loud and grumpy. 

Theon wheels around to see Robb looking up from his hands. The horse snorts and throws its head, startled at the sudden movement. 

Recovering, Theon clears his throat and narrows his eyes in a fierce scowl. “What in the seven hells do you want, Stark?”

If the Lord or Lady heard him speak such a way to their son they’d give him a hiding, but it doesn’t matter now. Now that he’s lost Robb’s favour Lord Stark will probably want his head, regardless. If he’s not going to be a friend to his heir, why have an enemy in the castle? 

Robb is quiet, looking at his hands. He doesn’t seem to know what to say.

“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry,” he admits, voice raw. “I hadn’t — I hadn’t meant what I said, last night. Not really. I thought that you’d… When I — when I said deviant things before, you only ever…” Blush tinges Robb’s cheeks. “You’ve liked everything else.”

Theon’s neck burns all the way up to his face. He can’t even deny that. He _had_ liked everything else. Being on his knees, sucking at Robb’s cock, being degraded and shamed in a way no man should take pleasure in. It burned in him. It was better than any girl he’s had, just knowing that he had to do whatever Robb asked. Giving himself over entirely to his commands. But he never thought Robb would ask something he didn’t want to do. He’s not sure why. It seems silly to think that now. Somehow, it had felt like Robb would just know what he wanted. Everything seemed to come easy to him that way. 

It still leaves a foul taste in his mouth, the things Robb said. It still leaves him filthy, unworthy, wrong. Theon shuts his eyes. 

Without even realizing, Robb has turned him into a salt wife. 

Theon doesn’t know how to answer him. He feels like he’s lied. Lied to Robb. Lied with his body and his desire. Despairing, he shakes his head, keeping a glare on his face. He reaches up and pets his horse’s neck, just for something to do with his hands.

Robb looks uncommonly frightened. “You told me you liked it. Me treating you that way. Treating you so — you said that you liked it.”

Theon wishes his tone were accusatory, hostile, blaming. It would make it easier to hate him. But Robb only sounds lost, misled, and Theon feels a pang of guilt in his chest. Theon looks at his feet and shrugs. When he has nothing to say, he turns back to his horse, hoping Robb will leave.

He doesn’t.

“I won’t do it anymore,” Robb goes on, nervously filling the silence. “I’m sorry. I won’t. You can just forget it ever happened. If you — if you don’t like it then you shouldn’t have to — Gods, I’ve said such… _vile, hurtful_ things to you and you —”

“I do like it,” Theon snaps, his back tense. 

When he looks back at the anguish on Robb’s face, he only feels small and bratty, a child not getting his way. There are tears in Robb’s eyes. Why is Theon treating him this way? Robb is still so green to this. It’s unfair of Theon to be so angry, even if he is, still. He drops his hand back to his side and turns back to Robb, the cold straw crinkling under his boots.

With a loud, hissing breath through his teeth, he adds shamefully, “It’s just that… I like it only from you, I think.”

“I don’t —” Robb starts, brow furrowed. Theon glares at his feet, so Robb tries again. “I don’t understand, then. Was I acting — was I that unlike myself?”

Theon snorts. “No, not that. I mean it was…” 

Blanching, he keeps his eyes pointed at Robb’s shoulder. It’s humiliating to say. It feels girlish. Theon has a reputation with the women of the North. He boasts of having every whore from here to White Harbor. He’s not used to wanting just one. He’s not used to feeling ashamed about what he wants. He’s certainly not used to wanting the sorts of things he wants from Robb. He’s not sure how to tell Robb to be possessive of him, to keep him to himself. He thought it’s what Robb wanted, but the thought of being mistaken sits sour at the back of his throat.

Robb waits patiently for Theon to speak, even when nothing comes to mind. Theon sighs.

“That — What you said about your brothers. Your _father._ ” Theon feels something unpleasant twitch in his gut at the memory. “I wouldn’t — I don’t want it from them. Not from anyone else. Not even the thought of it. I couldn’t bear to have anyone else see me like...” The confession sticks to Theon’s tongue. He’s ironborn. He’s a _lord._ He shouldn’t be this way at all. “Not like that.”

The realization is slow on Robb’s face. “Oh…”

He looks away then, and tension clenches hard in Theon’s stomach. He wonders if Robb is thinking back on the same thing Theon is. Robb’s hand knotted in his hair, eyes wide and dark as he stares down at Theon on his knees. _Have you done this before?_

Panicked, Theon swallows an odd lump in his throat and tries not to flinch. He tries to think of something to say before Robb can ask him something he doesn’t want to answer. 

“I try not to sleep with the mothers of any of the maidens I take to bed,” he lands on finally. “Sisters, mayhaps, but only after they’ve bled and grown tits.”

It’s crass, but it shatters the tension, and Robb laughs. Theon smirks at him, heart pounding. He lets Robb’s laugh die down, and a peace settles between them at last. It feels foolish now, being so angry. 

Robb waits as Theon finishes grooming his horse, not braving to say anything but beaming that Theon has allowed him back into his orbit. Oddly, it hadn’t occurred to Theon that he would have the ability to upset Robb so much. Something glows under his skin, to think that he has that sort of power. 

Together, the two of them walk through the gates and along the castle walls, toward the wolfswood to enjoy the fading day. The guardsmen are changing shifts as the sun sets. The sky over the wolfswood is streaked with brindled orange clouds. Walking in the shadow of the gatehouse, Theon reaches out claps Robb soundly on the back. Robb’s eyes are bright and excited again, and he’s smiling. He’d seemed so wounded at the thought of never playing again. Theon’s quiet as he thinks back to the serious look on Robb’s face when Theon would joke about tavern wenches, in the beginning.

With the anger gone, Theon feels the remnants of jealousy in its stead. He thought Robb wouldn’t want to share him, not with anyone. Certainly not with members of his family. The thought weighs on him, until, winding down a path through the wolfswood, Theon is sure enough they’re alone. “Robb?”

Robb stops instantly, looking Theon in the eye. It’s somewhat daunting, and Theon swallows down the burn of sudden panic in his throat.

“What you — what you said,” Theon mumbles, shrugging, “back when we were playing… You don’t want that, do you?”

Robb tilts his head. “Want what?”

“For me to... To give me to your brothers.” He swallows, feeling a bitter sort of sick in his throat. “They’re not — they’re just children.”

Robb flinches. The look on his face is like he’s only just realized how twisted his words were. “I hadn’t meant — gods, Theon, not like _that._ I hadn’t meant to — I’d meant when they were older. Not now. Gods, not now. Not even just in play.” 

It eases a bit of the discomfort coiled at Theon’s back, but it’s not enough of what Theon wants to hear. “But I... even if they were… or your father — or _Jon._ ”

The last addition baffles Robb a little, and he blinks. 

Theon tries to roll his eyes, but his chest is so tight he’s worried it looks more as if he’s trying not to cry.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

“I don’t want — no, I don’t want that, either.” Robb admits shyly. “I only said it because I thought you might. You always have so many stories, all those different girls you bed. I thought you — you’d like it. To — to have others.”

Theon nods, feeling dishonest. He hasn’t had a woman since starting this game with Robb. He hasn’t told Robb as much. Theon doesn’t want the servant girls or the whores in winter town anymore. Not when he can play their game. He wants to tell Robb, but panic keeps it under his tongue. He doesn’t want to scare him again.

“When the time comes, if I had my way, I think I’d marry you to Sansa, just because I know how little she cares for you.” It isn’t as funny as Theon’s laugh makes it seem, bursting from him out of sheer anxiety, but Robb is smiling. “It’d give purpose to frequent visits and councils, and I would host you in my own bed, each time.”

“Well, she’d never forgive you for that,” Theon jokes as warmth pools in his stomach. He feels the bark of a tree against his back, Robb stepping closer to him. The sun is starting to sink, and with it, fog starts to rise from their mouths with every breath. 

“I won’t say such things again, I promise you,” Robb says carefully, touching Theon’s cheek with a gloved hand. “I never would have if I — if I’d known.” It’s hard to look away from him. He has such an intense face; serious. A lord. “In honesty, it’s hard enough knowing we’ll have to marry you off to another one day and send you home. If I had a way to keep you here in Winterfell for the rest of your days, I’d do it.” 

His voice is so frank and soft, nothing like it had been the night before, in his room. His eyes are open and glassy, and the corner of his mouth twitches with a smile. If Robb is playing, it’s a different game now. 

Swept in the warmth of him, Theon stands on the balls of his feet and takes Robb’s mouth in his own.

Robb kisses back with force, hands gripping just above Theon’s elbows to press him back against the tree. Theon whines, and Robb deepens the kiss, letting go of Theon’s arm to tip his head back to devour him. Robb’s other hand starts to wander, trailing down the front of Theon’s doublet, but before his fingers find the edge of it, a loud rustle just behind them breaks them hurriedly apart.

It’s only a stray cat, fat and lumbering as it plods through the grass. They’re close enough to the castle that the thing probably lives off of rats and table scraps thrown out from the kitchens. 

Robb laughs first, sound rough on his tongue. Theon laughs too, and the moment is broken.

“We should — we should head back, I think,” Robb says quietly. 

Theon nods. He’ll be needed in putting Bran and Rickon to bed, soon, anyway.

They walk back together in casual silence, and Theon tries to shake the memory of Robb’s words from his mind.

_“If I had a way to keep you here in Winterfell for the rest of your days, I’d do it.”_

When they make it back to the castle, Lord Stark is at the armory bridge. He smiles as he sees them approach. Lord Stark is a stern man, though smiles do not look misplaced on his face. He laughs often, especially with the children, but after what Theon and Robb had just done in the woods, Theon feels caught and looks away. As the two of them make way to Lord Stark’s side, his hands are shaking.

“You’re looking better, Theon,” Lord Stark says genuinely. Theon hopes he isn’t blushing. “If you wouldn’t mind seeing Bran and Rickon to bed a little early, poor Nan was feeling under the weather this evening. She’s in no mood for stories.”

Shy, Theon nods. “Yes, my lord.”

When they start into the castle, Theon expects Robb to retire to his own chambers, but instead he keeps at Theon’s side. Theon glances over at him. “Where are _you_ going?”

“I’m coming with you,” Robb offers cheerfully.

Nervous, Theon looks back over his shoulder, as if Lord Stark will be just behind them, and see right through the way they’re acting. But the hall is empty, and Robb has always been impossible to deny, playing or no.

They find the children in Lady Catelyn’s room, playing quietly at her skirts. She gives them both a smile as they usher them out, giving Robb a kiss on the cheek as he leaves. Theon takes little Rickon to his bassinet and leaves Bran to Robb. Bran loves his brother far more than he cares for Theon, he’d only prefer it that way. 

Rickon’s nursemaid is absent from the nursery when Theon enters. Rickon is fussy, as he tends to be before bed, and without the servant girl to do it, Theon tries to settle him. He rocks little Rickon the way his mother had done until he starts to doze. Tucking him into bed, Theon forgets being upset, the words Robb had said that made him sick. He ruffles Rickon’s wild curls and shuts the door behind him.

Robb is still in Bran’s room, when Theon walks past. He hears his animated whisper through the crack in Bran’s door. When Theon leans forward, he hears Robb telling one of Old Nan’s stories. The one of white walkers and the Long Night that Bran loves so much. Lady Catelyn insists never to tell him the horror stories before bed, but that’s Old Nan’s rule to follow. Robb has no issue with breaking it.

Smiling, Theon leans against the wall so he can watch Robb through the crack left in Bran’s open door, listening in to him tell the story. He knows it just as well as Old Nan by now, having heard it so many times himself. It had been Robb’s favourite, too, when they were young. Theon remembers. 

Where Old Nan has grown too old to strike terror with her voice, Robb invents his own horrifying growls and noises. He claps his hands to make a sound like thunder, and Bran squeaks. Robb laughs, and Bran pushes his shoulder grumpily.

“I’m not scared,” he says with all his Stark confidence. “You just surprised me.”

“Of course, little brother, I know,” Robb answers, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Bran’s head. “You’re too old to be scared of monsters any longer.”

Through the limited scope of Theon’s vision, he sees Robb scoop Bran into a final hug goodnight. Bran pushes at him, pretending to be offended by being treated like a baby, but both Theon and Robb know better than to think he doesn’t enjoy the attention. 

“Sleep well, Bran,” Robb tells him, ruffling his hair as Theon had just done to Rickon. “If any white walkers make it into your dreams, be sure to slay them quickly.”

Bran laughs, and Theon watches him get to his feet. He feels abruptly like he’s spying, and keeps walking down the hall. He’s not sure if Robb would mind him watching, but he doesn’t want to embarrass him, either way.

When Robb comes to Theon that night, after everyone else in the castle is asleep, Theon considers not letting him in at first. It’s only been a day and night. He’s not sure he wants to try again so soon. 

But Robb had promised. He wouldn’t do it again. Theon could tell him no. So he opens his bedroom door for Robb and Robb steps inside and shuts the door behind him, but his face isn’t hard or angry. He’s not playing. He looks almost nervous.

“Robb? What —?” 

Before Theon can ask, Robb takes Theon’s face in his hands and leads him up into a kiss. For a moment, Theon thinks he means to start where they left off, in the woods, but that kiss had been hungry and rough. Now, Robb’s hands hold Theon still, brushing the curls from his face, and the kiss is gentle. When Robb walks Theon back until his heels knock against the door, excitement flutters in his chest, but Robb doesn’t pin him. It isn’t like it had been in the woods, it isn’t like it had been outside the armory. Robb is so careful as he cups Theon’s face and slides his tongue into his mouth, as if Theon hasn’t taught him how a dozen times by now.

For a moment, Theon is unsure how to respond, melting into it. His hands reach up, fingers wrapping around Robb’s wrists. Robb purrs against Theon’s mouth, holding Theon’s face tighter, tilting him up into the kiss. It’s such a sweet and tender touch that Theon doesn’t even realize his need for breath until Robb breaks away from him. He has to gasp to fill his lungs as Robb rests his forehead to Theon’s.

The only sound is the crackling of Theon’s dying hearth, barely audible over their own breathing. Robb does not reach for the hem of Theon’s breeches. He does not push or pull at Theon in his arms. He doesn’t even speak.

“Robb…”

Robb’s eyes are wide, and Theon feels his heart in his throat.

“Good… good night, Greyjoy.”

Theon opens his mouth to respond, but Robb is already away and closing the door behind himself.

In the morning, nothing seems different, at first. But Robb is uncommonly shy, even when they’ve hidden away in the godswood springs after drill practice. Jon didn’t follow them, there’s no reason to be. When Theon swims up to him, Robb pulls him into a kiss, but it’s chaste and careful, and ends sweetly. Blushing, Theon pushes a wave of water into his face, trying to spurn their game. Sometimes Robb likes to play only once Theon has made him mad. But Robb just pushes water back and frowns.

“Quit it.”

Robb doesn’t kiss him again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one - hope it makes up for all the torment of the last two chapters. At least for now. <3

For days, Robb doesn’t come to him. 

In front of the rest of them, he’s no different than he usually is. Friendly and teasing, like he and Theon have always been since they were small. But when they’re caught alone together, he barely speaks at all. It doesn’t make sense, after they had mended their grievances. Not after the way he’d kissed Theon in the wolfswood, or later, in his room. Theon follows him like a shadow most days, tugging at him any moment they have alone, but Robb doesn’t fight him. He neither initiates their game nor scorns Theon’s attempts. Robb seems almost to dread it, to be around him when there isn’t someone else nearby.

After nearly a fortnight of this avoidance, Theon is furious, horrified by his own self-pity. He’s been rejected, again. He starts lashing out at the children again, starting nasty fights with Jon that end in scrapes and bruises, telling dirty stories in front of Sansa that make her blush and tattle to Robb. Theon wants him to get angry, wants Robb to throw him down and force him to behave like he would have before. Wants the steady hand of his lord toying with him, steadying him, undoing him. Instead, all Robb does is tisk and shake his head. It’s as if Theon isn’t even worth the effort to even scold, any longer. 

Being ignored is worse than being scorned. Theon spends his nights agonizing over it before falling asleep. He’s ruined it. Robb doesn’t want to play anymore. Fine. Theon doesn’t need him to. He’d gotten on fine without their game all this time, it doesn’t matter, anyway. 

It’s the middle of the night when Theon gets out of bed and dresses for riding. If Robb has no interest in playing anymore, he can at least fuck Ros.

He’s fastening his doublet when there’s a knock on his door. He’s unsurprised to see that it’s Robb, but isn’t sure how to welcome him. It’s been so long, for a moment he wonders if perhaps he’s only here for reasons that have nothing to do with their deviant game. 

Finally, he tries, voice flat, “Stark.”

“Can I — is it alright if I come in?”

His hesitance stings. Robb would not have to ask, if he were here to play. Theon frowns, dissatisfied. He shuffles aside. As Robb makes his way inside, he looks Theon over, taking in his appearance. 

“Why are you dressed?”

Shrugging, Theon grumbles, “Thought I’d take a mount to winter town.”

“Why’s that?”

“Why do you think?”

He says it to be cruel, but the moment the question leaves his mouth, he regrets it. Robb gasps but quickly tries to hide it. His eyes fall to his feet. 

Frustrated, Theon glares. “Did you need something before I go, little lord?”

He wants Robb to say yes. He wants Robb to throw him onto his knees and slap him across the face and tell him what a foul mess he’s being. He wants Robb to pin him to the floor and choke him for his behaviour. He wants Robb to hold his head still and fuck down his throat until he’s learned his lesson. Theon knows he wants to.

“I was —” Robb starts, but nothing else comes out.

Theon waits, inwardly pleading. Robb just looks at the floor, and Theon feels it like an itch under his skin. Why is he being like this? This is his castle. This was his game. Theon is his captive. He’s acting like a damn maiden.

“Drowned _fuck,_ ” Theon snarls. 

He shoves past Robb to get out the door. But Robb grabs hard onto Theon’s arm.

“ _Watch it!_ ”

Theon jolts backward as Robb snaps him firmly away from the door by his elbow. A thrill fires up his spine, but Robb seems to have lost his confidence in the same instant he’d gained it. He stares open-mouthed at Theon, searching his face for something.

Swallowing, Theon nods, just once. 

Robb throws him back from the door and he stumbles, nearly losing his footing. Shock crosses Robb’s face, panicked and unsure. After a moment’s hesitation, Theon lowers himself to his knees. Robb must know he wants it if he does it himself.

Curious, Robb watches him hit the flagstone before he starts toward him. He grabs hold of Theon’s hair, but the grip is light, gentle. His eyes are wide, and within seconds, he’s let go entirely.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to play, Theon realizes. He’s frightened. Frightened at what he might do. He doesn’t want to hurt Theon — not the way he had before.

“Robb, please,” Theon says softly, waiting for Robb’s eyes to meet his. “Hit me.”

Relief washes over Robb’s face for an instant before he cracks his hand over Theon’s cheek. After so long it feels like lighting, and Theon’s head snaps to the side as a groan leaves his mouth. Robb snatches a fistful of Theon’s hair, as hard and unrelenting as it had been in the beginning, and Theon’s body trills with excitement. Robb’s eyes are nearly black in the low light. 

It’s so sudden, the change. Robb holds himself differently in an instant, firm back, towering over Theon. It feels like a wave, hot and all-encompassing. Robb’s voice like a knife against Theon’s throat.

“You’re too familiar, Greyjoy.” 

“ _Yes, m’lord,_ ” Theon moans.

Robb shakes him by the hair, a growl deep in his chest. “You’ve been a right disgrace around the castle, lately.”

Theon nods, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. “I know, m’lord. Forgive me, I’m — I’m sorry —”

“You’re not sorry,” Robb hisses, tugging on his hair, “not sorry at all. You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Think I can’t see it? You did it on purpose.”

Mouth hanging open, Then nods. His spine is burning. “Yes — yes, m’lord. I did.”

“Tell me why,” Robb snarls.

“Wanted — wanted… to make you angry.”

Scoffing, Robb pulls him up by his hair until he’s tall on his knees. “You’ve succeeded.”

The bite is back in his voice, but Theon is desperate for contact. He wants Robb to shove him to the floor, throw him into a wall. Instead, Robb drops his hold, and Theon sits back onto his heels.

“If I’ve found you’ve gone to winter town tonight, Greyjoy, I’ll remove your head myself.”

He turns to leave, and Theon panics, snatching his ankle. “Robb, wait —”

Glaring down at him, Robb kicks out of his grip and grinds the heel of his boot onto his hand. Hot shock races down Theon’s spine, and Robb grabs him by the chin. 

“What did I tell you, Greyjoy? You believe you’ll get your way if you treat me as an equal?”

Head spinning, Theon tries to blink his vision straight. “I’m sorry, m’lord, please — please don’t leave me.”

Robb’s eyes widen, for just the fraction of a second. Perhaps he hadn’t expected Theon to be so baseless, but the humiliation is intoxicating. 

Breathlessly, Theon adds, “Please.”

“Fine,” Robb says tersely. “What do you want? Me to stand here while you tug on your cock?”

Theon will take what he can get. He nods. “If it — please you.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Robb glances back at the door before meeting Theon’s eyes. “Well, get on with it, then.”

As Theon pulls his cock from his breeches, Robb hisses, “Eyes on the floor.”

Theon keens in disappointment. He wants to look at Robb, it’s why he wants him here. But arguing will only make Robb leave. He complies, staring down at the floor.

“Does it get you off, knowing that I’m watching you?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon admits freely, the back of his neck blooming red as he works his hand over himself.

“Do you — do you think yourself worthy of my time this way? Don’t you think I have enough to worry about?”

“No, m’lord.” His free hand hits the flagstone, holding him upright. “I’m — sorry, m’lord.”

Silence, for a moment. Theon’s thoughts are starting to blur. He can’t see Robb’s face, but he sees the soft leather of his boots out of the corner of his eye, and a thrill runs through him. He has no idea what Robb is thinking, watching him. He could be utterly disgusted. Theon drops onto his elbow with a soft whine at the back of his throat. His skin is burning. The air around him is on fire.

Robb’s voice is sharp and quiet. “Do you want to come?”

“Gods, yes, m’lord.”

“Do you? Is that how you ask for permission?”

Robb has never asked this many questions before. It’s hard to focus on how to answer. Theon’s words are starting to slur against his tongue.

“No, m’lord. Pl — please. Please let me come, m’lord. I’ll — I’ll be good.”

A soft gasp above him. Robb is taken by surprise, perhaps, but he recovers quickly. “You will. You will be good. No more fighting with my brother or being a letch to my sister. You’ll be the good and loyal ward you’re meant to be. Understand?”

Theon’s forehead rests against the cool flagstone. His mouth moves without thought. “Yes, m’lord. Good — good and loyal ward.”

“Get on with it, then, Greyjoy,” Robb orders stiffly. “I haven’t got all night.”

When Theon comes, his arms are shaking. He doesn’t lift his head, staring down at the mess he’s made of the floor. Swallowing, he manages hoarsely, “Than — thank you, m’lord.”

He watches his own seed cooling on the stone and waits to hear Robb leave, to hear him speak. For a long time, Theon hears neither, only silence.

When Robb finally does speak, his voice is far nearer than it had been moments ago. Theon hadn’t noticed him come closer. “Would a good and loyal ward of my house leave a mess like that?”

Theon swallows and shakes his head. “No, m’lord.”

He opens his mouth, ready to lick the floor clean with his tongue, before he realizes that isn’t what Robb means. He wants him to stand. He wants Theon to use a cloth. When he moves to get up from his knees, Robb’s hand pushes down between the blades of his shoulders.

“Tell — tell me you want it.”

Theon looks up, unsure if he’s allowed. 

Robb is staring at him, eyes dark and wide. He’s shaking when he speaks again. “Tell me you want to lick it off the floor. I — I saw you… Gods, Theon, tell me, _please._ ”

There’s no air in the room. Theon is panting with the effort to speak. “I — I want it,” he begs honestly, blood pounding in his ears. “I’ll do it, m’lord. Whatever m'lord commands. Please, m’lord, let me — let me —”

Robb shoves him back down, onto his knees and elbows, and Theon drags his tongue greedly over his mess. It sticks cold and salty in his mouth, and he loves it. Loves the taste of himself and the sick disgust under his skin. He loves Robb’s hand pressed hard against his back, loves his face pressed against the flagstone. He laps at the floor long after the only taste is filthy stone.

His heart is pounding when Robb rips him up by his hair. He can still feel Robb shaking, his grip trembling. Theon wonders if it’s for the same reason he can’t stop panting, if Robb is as desperate for it after going without for so long.

“Thank you, m’lord,” Theon whispers, eyes falling shut.

He pushes back on his heels with Robb’s hand knotted in his hair, peaceful and warm when Robb’s mouth crashes against his, needy and helpless and desperate. Robb’s nails claw into Theon’s face, holding him still against the kiss, and Theon whimpers, lost in it.

He wonders if Robb can taste the dirt of the stone floor, if he can taste Theon’s come against his tongue. He moans, and Robb pulls away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and into to bed, Greyjoy.” His voice is shaky as he gets to his feet. He brushes unseen dust from his own shift. He’s still trembling. “It’ll be dawn, soon. You have duties to fulfill, come morning.”

Theon nods. “Yes, m’lord.”

Robb helps steady him to his feet and lets Theon lean against his shoulder as he swipes himself clean in the wash basin. Robb’s hands are soft and careful as he leads Theon to his bed. Theon’s knees wobble, and he’s distantly grateful for the help. As Robb sits Theon back onto his bed, Theon reaches for him absently, dragging him into another kiss.

It’s over quickly, and Robb holds Theon’s face, watching his eyes for a moment. A smile flickers on his face.

“Good night, Greyjoy.”

Theon smiles, but he must be asleep before Robb closes the door behind him. It’s the best he’s slept in days.

In the morning, Theon wakes early and has most of his early tasks done before Lord Stark can even find him. He works so quickly he’s left doing things that are usually meant for other servants: brushing out the horses and throwing corn out for the fowl. The good and loyal ward. At midday meal, even Lady Stark touches his shoulder and thanks him for all his help. Theon nods shyly, his eyes on Robb, just behind her.

Jon joins him and Robb in the godswood springs after lessons, and as desperately as Theon wants to be alone with Robb, he knows not to snap or fight with Jon to do so. He’s quiet and pleasant, watching Robb’s eyes on him the whole time.

Mercifully, Jon retires first of his own decision, but when Theon swims toward Robb, hoping to be rewarded, Robb drags himself out of the pool. Theon frowns as he reaches the edge of the spring, but Robb only winks at him as he starts for his clothes.

It’s an exquisite form of torture, the way Robb teases him. Now, whenever they’re alone, he runs soft touches over Theon’s skin, looking him over ravenously just before their privacy is lost. It drives Theon mad, when someone interrupts them. But from the way Robb always smiles afterwards, it can only be by design. It leaves Theon helpless to follow after Robb for any brief instant of attention. 

He dreams of Lord Stark’s execution block again, head pinned against it as Robb fucks down his throat. He wakes the next morning having spent into his furs, and hurries to clean the evidence away before Lord Stark comes to retrieve him. For hours after, it’s all Theon can think of, distracting him during chores and practice.

The nights when Robb doesn’t come to him, Theon is left stroking himself to his rapidly spiralling fantasies. He thinks of his dreams. He thinks of sucking Robb’s cock for him while crouched under the table in the Great Hall, where anyone could see if they were to just look. He wants to stay locked in Robb’s room, kept on his knees until Robb comes to receive him. He wants Robb to keep him, the way he said he would. Long after he’s Lord of Winterfell, long after Theon’s father has died, just for himself.

Sometimes, Theon fantasizes of other things. Curling with Robb beneath the heart tree, sleeping tucked at his side. He thinks of Robb’s careful hands petting back his hair, holding his face as he kisses him, unafraid of anyone to see. He thinks of growing old in Winterfell, sleeping every night in the Lord’s chambers. But those thoughts are, somehow, more disgraceful than the others. He does his best to ignore them.

It’s a warm and lazy morning when Robb convinces Theon and Jon to practice drills with him without Ser Rodrik. Without him there to judge their footing and strikes, it always feels more like a real battle, even with the wooden swords. 

Robb swipes his sword into Theon’s side, and Theon unbalances, toppling onto his back. He hears Jon laugh, from some distance, and Robb winks as he holds out his hand to help him back to his feet.

When Theon takes it, Robb leans forward, his lips a breath from his ear. “You’ll come to me, tonight.”

Heart in his throat, Theon nods, shooting a look over at Jon. The bastard is too far off to have heard, and it’s too cool of an afternoon for the little ones to be playing outside. Hostlers walk horses over by the stables. No one has noticed. 

When Robb pulls away, his smile is easy. If not for the mischievous glint in his eye, Theon would be sure he’d imagined the request.

The day drags, endless, and Theon is at Robb’s door as soon as nightfall settles over the castle and the torches are lit. Robb answers grinning, when Theon knocks, and drags him inside by his collar. His eyes are dark and hungry, roving over Theon’s body as he shoves him back against the wall.

Moonlight streams in through the window, bathing Robb in cool blue light. He’s still completely dressed, even still has his boots on. Theon hadn’t expected that, not after Robb had seemed so eager to have him here. Theon glances around the room, the furs still tidy on Robb’s bed, a candle at his desk casting warm glow over an open book. Has Theon misunderstood? Was he not supposed to be here now?

“Should I have —?”

Before Theon can finish the question, Robb traces his hand up Theon’s throat and unfastens his doublet. He begins undo each lace himself before something passes over his face and he pulls his hand away. For an instant, Theon worries, but Robb’s eyes are focused, dark. He tilts his head to the side, considering. 

“I want your clothes off,” he says hurriedly, “All of them. I want to see you. Go on.”

Nodding, Theon drags his shift off of his back and kicks out of his breeches. He doesn’t meet Robb’s eyes until he’s stripped entirely.

Robb hasn’t removed a single thing. He’s beautiful, still in his leather doublet and boots. He hasn’t even slipped the gloves from his hands. Theon doesn’t feel worthy, standing before him like they’re equals while he’s naked. He goes to kneel, but Robb snatches a handful of his hair and holds him upright.

“No,” he says softly, “Sit — sit on the bed.”

Theon scrambles to obey, nearly tripping over the pile of clothes he’d left at his feet. When he sits back on Robb’s bed, Robb looks Theon over, eyes dark. Theon’s cock stirs in his lap. 

“Touch your — touch yourself,” Robb orders.

Hesitating, Theon looks down at himself. He doesn’t feel deserving to do this here, on Robb’s soft, rich wolfskins. They’re much nicer than his own. Robb claps his hands in front of Theon’s face, frustrated.

“Do as I tell you.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

Taking his cock in his hand, Theon strokes from hilt to tip. His fingers hold loose at first, but the friction causes Theon’s hesitance to fade, and he tightens his grip. Robb watches him, curious and silent. 

He’s never touched himself, here. Not in the heir’s chambers. He doesn’t feel like he should be allowed to. It’s like a shock just under his skin.

The moon out Robb’s window makes his room uncommonly bright for the hour, and Theon can see when Robb’s tongue traces along his bottom lip. A chill runs down Theon’s spine, and he grabs a fistful of the furs at his hips in a white-knuckle grip to keep the hand at his cock from pulling any tighter. Robb starts toward him, and Theon leans forward — desperate for the way Robb holds his face or pets his hair — but Robb stops short. He stares down at Theon’s hand working furiously over his cock, and takes a deep breath. 

“Is that what you like?” Robb asks, voice low. “Gentle like that?”

“Have to be slow. I don’t — you haven’t told me I could — I could come.” A whine catches in Theon’s throat.

Distantly, Robb nods. “Good,” he says coolly. “Good.”

Robb doesn’t reach for him, he doesn’t even blink. He’s staring down at him with such intensity that it’s hard for Theon to breathe and he looks away, feeling torn open and exposed, like Robb can see right through him. 

“Look at me.” Theon’s head snaps up as if attached to a string. Robb’s eyes are cold, like iron left out in the snow. He steps closer, and Theon swallows. “Do you love your own cock that much? You’d rather watch it slide through your own hand than anything else?”

“No, m’lord,” Theon gasps.

“Do you watch your own cock going into those whores you drag into your bed, Greyjoy?” Robb takes another step.

Theon shakes his head. “No, m’lord.”

“Am I not worth the same caliber of respect you give your whores?” he asks, moving closer.

Theon shakes his head, unblinking. “F — far more, m’lord.”

A final step has Robb standing directly over his bed, so close that Theon has to spread his knees to keep from touching him. “Then why would you look away from me?”

He leans close, and Theon can feel Robb’s breath ghost over his face. He still hasn’t touched him, hasn’t even tried. Theon shakes his head again, a tremor of pleasure curling up from his spine.

“I — I won’t do it again, m’lord. For — forgive me.”

Theon’s vision is starting to blur. He’s losing track of the edges of his body. Robb watches with his mouth open, eyes dark as they rove down to Theon’s lap. Theon’s hips jerk helplessly into his hand, but he barely feels it now. He doesn’t want to come — not now. He wants Robb’s forgiveness. 

“Please, m’lord,” Theon whimpers, voice barely a rasp. “Please forgive me.”

“You’re such a needy thing,” Robb chides. 

His voice is so quiet Theon thinks he may not have been meant to hear it. Theon twitches, heat racing through his blood. He likes that, being a thing. As long as it’s a thing that belongs to Robb. He nods, helpless, and Robb finally reaches forward and touches Theon’s face. The feel of warm, worn leather on his skin steals Theon’s breath from his lungs and he keens, long and loud.

His hand is still working over his cock, but he barely feels it for the sensation of Robb’s fingers on his cheek. His face goes slack, mouth open, vision losing focus. Tears are stinging the corners of his eyes, but he refuses to blink, lest he look away again.

“Look at you,” Robb whispers. “I’m barely touching you, and you’re falling apart.”

“Ye — yes, m’lord.”

Robb drops his hand, and Theon whines. His hand stumbles on his cock, and he leans forward, trying to close the distance between them. Robb tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. 

“What is it?” Theon licks his lips, but Robb seems to understand before can answer. “Gods, was that — Are you that desperate for me to touch you?”

Theon opens his mouth, but his voice is lost. He nods. Robb’s eyes are wide, on fire. He bites his lip, and Theon’s aware of his own hand around his cock again. He moves slower, torturously. Robb’s eyes on him are more important than any touch Theon gives himself. He wants to savour the way Robb looks in this moment, keep his attention as long as he can. Robb watches for another few hesitant strokes before wrapping his hand around Theon’s wrist. Theon stiffens, and lets Robb pull his hand off of him with a gasp. Without a word, Robb removes his gloves, and sets them beside Theon on the bed.

When Robb’s delicate fingers wrap around Theon’s cock, his hips buck from the bed. “Robb —” 

His voice is hoarse, high, and his other hand tangles hard in Robb’s furs. He’s not allowed to touch until Robb says. But Robb’s hand is so unbearably soft and light against Theon’s cock, he can hardly stand it. Light is bursting in Theon’s vision and he has to shut his eyes and breathe. 

“Robb, gods, what are you — I — I shouldn’t —”

Robb isn’t listening. “Is that good?”

Theon slumps forward, thrusting helplessly against Robb’s fist. “ _Robb_ —”

“I asked you a question, Greyjoy.”

Theon nods, his head spinning as he opens his eyes. “Y — yes, m’lord.”

“Good,” Robb answers an instant before dropping his hand away. Theon yelps, his hips jerking against nothing.

“You want more than to suck my cock, don’t you?” Robb murmurs. He climbs up and straddles Theon’s hips, a knee on either side of him, without looking away. Theon, blood thundering in his ears, drops back onto his elbows. The weight on his lap settles, warm and heavy. Curiously, Robb shifts against him, grinding into Theon’s lap. It draws a strangled noise from Theon’s mouth, and Robb smirks. 

“You want to — you want to be my first, don’t you? The first to take me.”

Theon’s eyes fall away from Robb, to the floor. Something cold drops in his stomach, just for a moment, twisting uncomfortably. The idea of fucking Robb makes him feel filthy, unworthy. Robb is a lord. More than that, he’s a _good_ lord. Honest and brave and noble. Far too good a man for Theon to fuck the same way he would some scullery maid. He’s fucked so many women, and none of them have mattered much. None of them have had this power over him. Not like Robb does.

“N — no, m’lord,” he admits shyly.

Snatching Theon’s hair, Robb rips his head up until Theon meets his eyes. “I told you never to lie to me, Greyjoy.” Robb stares him down, confident he’s caught him in a lie.

“I’m not — not lying, m’lord, I swear it,” he says breathlessly. “I don’t want — I don’t want to fuck you.” He swallows against the way Robb holds his neck prone, blinking tears from his eyes. His body is warm, thrumming and needy, his scalp burning against Robb’s grip. Shame burns through him, and his hips rock against Robb’s weight. “I want — I want you to fuck me.”

Somehow, it startles Robb. After everything, Theon’s needs still take him by surprise. The grip on his hair goes loose, and Theon blinks more tears from his eyes, inhaling deeply. Humiliated, he reaches for Robb’s leather doublet, afraid he may scare him if he grabs for him, but terrified that he may get to his feet and force Theon to leave. 

“Please,” he says helplessly. “I know it’s — it’s not right, but I want—”

“Do your whores know this about you?” Robb asks curiously, “How desperate you are to be fucked like some sort of —”

“No,” Theon interrupts, “no, m’lord. I would never want it — not from them. You’re — I only want you.”

Exhaling sharply, Robb’s grip in Theon’s hair tenses. “Say — say that again.”

“I only want you, m’lord,” Theon gasps, writhing against Robb’s lap. “Please — just you.”

“You want me to soil my honor for the likes of you?” Robb grins at him.

If he’s trying to get a rise out of Theon, he’s too far gone for it to work. Theon only nods. 

Robb’s smile fades, and he asks honestly, “That’s a lot to ask the heir of Winterfell, isn’t it, Greyjoy? Do you think you’ve earned such a thing?”

“No, m’lord,” he says without hesitation. He feels near tears, and Robb’s hand rolls over Theon’s cock again. His grip is firmer this time, solid, and Theon sees stars. All he knows is _want._

“What would you do, then, to earn my honor, Greyjoy?”

“Anything,” Theon begs, hands releasing the furs and tangling in auburn curls. Had Robb given him permission? “Anything you want, m’lord. The — the Islands would be yours, when my father dies. I give them to you. I’ll give you — give you anything.”

Robb’s eyes are shining, drinking in Theon’s bald debauchery and whorishness as if it’s still brand new to him. It sends fire thrumming in Theon’s veins.

“Give me something that is already all but promised to me when you take a Northern bride?” Robb says sharply, fingers soft and strong on Theon’s cock. “In exchange for seven hells? You’d no longer be the only sinner, if I stick my cock in you, Greyjoy. Tell me what you’ll give me.”

“Everything,” Theon groans, “Never — never leave your bed, m’lord. Yours to — use, always — _always_.”

Robb’s breath catches, his free hand cupping Theon’s face. He drags his thumb over Theon’s cheek and smiles. Theon can feel how hard he is against his leg. He reaches for him, but Robb slaps his hand away. He’s lucky Robb hasn’t torn Theon’s other hand from his hair.

“That’s no sacrifice for you, Greyjoy,” he replies, voice trembling. “That’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

Thrill burns under Theon’s skin, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from coming. Robb hasn’t said he could. Tears spring in Theon’s eyes.

“You’re — you’re right, m’lord, I’m — I’m sorry.”

Robb isn’t expecting an apology. His cock juts against Theon’s leg and he growls. 

“What more do you even have to give me, Theon?” he says with a jerk of his wrist. He’s losing track of himself, using Theon’s given name when they’re this way. “You already belong to me.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Theon keens, his vision fading over grey as his eyes roll back, shivering against Robb’s skin. 

“Gods, you’re a mess,” Robb hisses through his teeth. 

Theon nods mindlessly. His muscles pull tense as he forces himself to keep from coming in Robb’s hand. He’s not allowed, not yet. 

Robb drags Theon up by his hair and touches his forehead to Theon’s. It’s hard to see him when he’s so close. 

Breath trembling, Robb whispers, “Tell me. I — I want to know what I can have. What can I have that you haven’t already given me, Greyjoy?” 

Theon’s hand flies up to knot in Robb’s hair again, and the promise falls from his mouth. “I’ll never touch another — man or woman. I swear to you. _Please._ ”

“No one? What of your heirs? You’re the — last of the Greyjoy name.” Robb’s hips thrust against Theon’s thigh, and the hand slips from Robb’s hair. 

“I’ll die that way if it — please you,” Theon whimpers. “No one — else will ever have me.”

Robb lets go of Theon’s cock and Theon whines, jerking against the open air. It takes him a moment to realize Robb has pulled his own cock from his breeches and is stroking himself, instead. Theon’s head rolls back onto his shoulders. When he reaches for Robb again, the hand at Theon’s face tugs hard at his hair, keeping him still. 

“All your boasting of raiding and salt wives,” he starts bitterly, but Theon shakes his head.

“Don’t need them — just you, m’lord, gods, please —”

Robb rips at Theon’s hair again, and Theon meets his eyes. His eyes glint, furious and on fire. A wolf staring down his kill. 

“Just me.”

Theon nods, eyes falling shut. He can’t hold himself back much longer. Even without Robb’s hand around his cock, he’s so close, thrusting back helplessly against Robb’s leg. It’s everything he can do just to breathe. The hand in his hair pulls tight, and Robb lets out a soft breath against his face. 

“Just —” Slick warmth hits Theon’s leg, and Robb shivers against him. “ _Theon_ —” 

It’s not outright permission, but Theon can’t help it, his body thrumming to the very edge of sensation as he spills onto his stomach. His vision goes white and his mind goes blank.

When Theon blinks back to himself, he’s lying flat on Robb’s mattress. Robb is folded over top him, head tucked under his chin, the bed furs draped over them both. On instinct, Theon tries to move with a grunt, and Robb’s face is in front of him in an instant.

“You were shaking,” Robb murmurs. He sounds oddly worried. “I thought — I thought maybe you were cold.”

Theon scoffs, trying to roll Robb off of him, but Robb only pushes him down with his full weight.

“No — you’re shaking.”

“‘M not shaking now,” Theon mumbles. 

He tries to push Robb off of him again, but he just sits heavy on Theon’s chest and doesn’t budge. Robb is looking over at the wrist in his grip. Theon follows his eyes to see his fingertips trembling under Robb’s hands. He squints, surprised. He can’t feel it. Robb shuffles closer, letting go of Theon’s wrist to wrap his arm tight around Theon’s waist.

“Can’t stay here,” Theon protests blearily, twisting slightly in Robb’s hold. “Your father’d kill me.”

Unbothered, Robb only tucks his face into Theon’s neck. “Just for a minute,” he sighs. His voice is soft, and dangerously sleepy. “I like this.”

Theon worries he could be blushing. Robb kisses his neck and scoops Theon to fit his back tight against Robb’s chest. It occurs to Theon that Robb still hasn’t removed his clothes, the laces of his breeches tickling the small of Theon’s back. It seizes the breath from Theon’s lungs, but Robb doesn’t seem to notice. He’s infuriatingly gentle, kissing along Theon’s nape to press a kiss behind his ear.

“I can’t — stay here,” Theon repeats, more to remind himself than Robb. The attention is making his body heavy. It’s as if he could fall asleep any moment.

“I know,” Robb breathes against his jaw. “It’s alright, just — just a little longer.”

His arm crosses firm over Theon’s chest and holds him still, and Theon is helpless to nod. If Robb wants him to stay, he’ll stay. He closes his eyes and tries to forget the fear behind falling asleep here. Robb presses more kisses over Theon’s skin, and it’s so different from how he’d been moments ago, delicate and caring. Like how Robb is with the children. Theon feels as if he’s made of gold.

“Let me — wait here.”

Theon nods, and Robb jumps from the bed. 

Blinking his vision back into focus, Theon looks over his shoulder. Robb is at the wash basin by his door, dipping a linen rag in the water drawn from the pipes in the wall.

“Hold still,” Robb tells him. 

Theon nods, but Robb takes Theon’s arm and moves him himself, lying him flat on his back against his bed. The touch of wet cloth on his skin startles him. He jumps, but Robb shushes him before he can speak. Theon watches bewildered as Robb wipes the cloth over Theon’s thighs and stomach, cleaning him carefully. 

“What’re you doing?”

Robb shrugs. “I wanted to…” He rolls the cloth over Theon’s spent cock, single-minded and quick. “I just wanted to.”

Theon watches him in silence. When Robb’s finished, he takes the clean edge of the linen and swipes it over Theon’s face. It’s so unbearably tender that Theon flinches away. He tries to laugh it off, wiping his hand over the tickling sensation Robb’s cloth left on his cheek.

“What…” Theon smiles, a little nervously. It feels silly, to be doted on. “What is this?”

“I like this,” Robb answers gently. “It feels good to take care of you, after...”

Theon falls silent, embarrassed. It sounds as if it’s something he thinks about often, when they’re playing. Does Robb not like their game, after all? Does he only do it because he thinks Theon wants it? It’s not fun, that way. It isn’t what Theon wants, if Robb doesn’t want it just as much.

“You don’t — have to,” Theon manages finally. 

He’s not sure if he means what Robb is doing now, or their game.

“I know that,” he answers, sweet as ever, and the sour weight grows heavy where it sits in Theon’s gut. “It just feels nice, after the rest of it. Doesn’t it? For you?”

The weight is on his chest, now. Robb doesn’t want to hurt him, he’s only ever wanted to take care of him. _But that’s not fair,_ Theon thinks wildly, _I’m taking care of you, aren’t I?_ But he isn’t, not really. He’s just a demanding little brat spoiling his Lord and Lady’s firstborn son. He’s ruined him, the Starks’ good and perfect heir. He remembers the way Robb first kissed him in the springs. The way he’d kissed him back at the First Keep, or in his room after they’d fought. That’s what he’s wanted, all this time. Theon feels like a monster. 

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and Robb freezes, looking confused.

“Sorry,” Robb says, word like a tick, “Is it too strange? Doing both?”

Theon blinks, trying to swallow. _Doing both._ He must _want_ both. He must. 

“That would depend,” he says hoarsely. “Which — which do you rather?”

The confusion on Robb’s face only deepens. “I don’t understand.”

Theon shakes his head in frustration. He’s never been with anyone as green as Robb. Why couldn’t he have just kept to the beds of whores? Why did he have to need this, too? Why did he have to need this _more?_

“When you — when you’re cruel to me,” Theon mumbles. He’s holding Robb’s wrist tightly — tighter than should be allowed — when had he grabbed him? “When you hurt me, when we _play_. You… Do you not like that?”

Blushing, Robb looks away from him. _Spoiled prick. He never wanted you. You were never helping him at all. Just taking what you wanted._ His father would be proud, after all. So why does it make him sick?

“Of course I like that,” Robb answers after what feels like an age, but the sweetness is gone from his voice now. He sounds bitter, angry. He shakes his arm out of Theon’s grasp. “I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t like it. But it’s not how a lord behaves, is it? Certainly not with someone who shares his bed. I can’t possibly spill your blood against my bedsheets and then expect you to —”

“Little lord,” Theon interrupts, voice winded with his own relief. He sounds on the edge of a laugh. “You’d be surprised how lords behave when no one is watching.”

“My father would never…” Robb whispers uncertainly.

“Your father made a bastard son,” Theon reminds him, not unkindly. “He is perhaps not so honorable at every turn.”

Usually, Robb would scold him for such words. No one is to discredit his father of his unbreakable nobility, least of all his own captive ward. Now, he stares at Theon awash with relief. He looks so tender and small, Theon can’t help himself, leaning forward to kiss Robb as Robb had kissed him in the springs, an innocent press of lips, kind and sweet. He must need it, now.

Robb responds instantly, framing Theon’s face with his hands and pulling him close, dragging him into his lap. Robb is still wearing his breeches, still wearing all his sigils and silks. Theon’s hips buck lazily against the linen covering Robb’s cock, not fully aware yet how spent the rest of him still is.

“I want both,” Robb purrs against Theon’s mouth. “Let me — let me have both.”

Theon nods, though he’s lost track of what he’s agreeing to. “Whatever m’lord wants.”

He isn’t reminded of what Robb means until the kiss breaks, and Robb tucks Theon against him, wiping him clean with the rag long-since dried. It’s soft, and every bit as warm and gentle as Robb is. Theon closes his eyes and melts into it, reminded of the thoughts he’d forced away before, sleeping beside him at night. Both doesn’t seem so bad. 

There’s fingers in his hair, soft and timid. Is he lying down? He wasn’t, before. He can’t remember where he is, but he’s never been so warm. It doesn’t even feel real. 

Robb’s voice is barely a whisper against his ear. “Theon?”

He might be dreaming. Without opening his eyes, Theon grunts in response.

“Did you mean that? What you — what you said. That you want me?”

He is dreaming. He never would have admitted that to Robb. It doesn’t matter, then. He burrows deeper into the warmth around him. “Mhm.”

Silence. The dream slips away to nothing.


	8. Chapter 8

Theon wakes to a knock at his door. He sits up in bed with a groan, rolling his stiff shoulders, and looks over with bleary eyes, but his door is gone. Theon blinks in confusion. There is only stone wall. It isn’t until there’s another knock that Theon realizes his bed isn’t faced the way it normally is.

It isn’t his bed.

Theon’s back stiffens, blood running cold. Realizing himself, he looks down. Robb is asleep, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, curled loosely into Theon’s side, one arm slung over his stomach. He’s trapped. There’s no way out of Robb’s room that isn’t through the door.

“Robb,” Theon hisses in perfect unison with Jon, calling from the other side of the door. 

Robb sits up with a jolt. It dawns on his face in a wave. He looks first at Theon, his brows furrowed in a variety of shocked expressions, and then at the door. 

“Um,” he says brilliantly, “one — one moment.”

Panicked, he shoves Theon out of bed, onto the floor where he lands in a heap with a crash and a yelp, and Robb is quick to speak over him. 

“Sorry,” he shouts for Jon, “I must’ve overslept.”

Theon curses under his breath and rights himself, gathering his discarded clothing into his arms. Heart pounding, he scans the room, his gaze landing on the long, wide window on the far wall, leading to the castle’s inner yard. The iron latticework keeps him in. Even if it didn’t, he doesn’t have the same skill at climbing as little Bran. He’d probably plummet to his death. Wouldn’t that be a sight, gasping for his last breaths naked in the yard. 

Moving quickly, Robb grips Theon by the elbow and gestures wildly toward the door. 

Theon stares. He can’t possibly think Theon should answer the door, can he? 

Robb pulls him to his feet and points frantically at the door. Theon looks back at the door. Jon knocks again, quieter this time. Theon looks back at Robb, still not comprehending.

“Gods,” Robb growls under his breath, shoving Theon until he’s pressed him back against the wall next to the door jamb. “Just stand here and be quiet. Don’t move.” 

Theon flinches as Robb swings the door open, heavy ironwood closing against him nearly flat to the wall and hiding him from view. Theon can’t see Robb any longer, but he hears the poorly hidden tremor in his voice as he manages, “Morning, Jon.”

There’s silence. Jon is always so quiet. “What was that sound?”

“Nothing,” Robb answers too quickly. Theon holds his breath. “I — I tripped.”

More silence. Theon feels as if he may faint. He closes his eyes and waits for one of them to say something. He squeezes his bundled clothes tight against his chest and prays Jon doesn’t try to come inside.

“What — what do you need, Jon?” Robb asks in a failingly innocent voice. 

Theon rolls his eyes. He’s a terrible liar. If Robb had been the one in _his_ room, Theon wouldn’t have this problem.

“Father’s looking for you,” Jon says with trepidation. “We’re supposed to meet with him this morning, about the Night’s Watch recruiters passing through on their journey back to the Wall. They’ll be bedding down at the castle in a day’s time.”

“Right,” Robb says stiffly. 

Theon presses closer to the smooth stone. Robb doesn’t seem capable of saying anything further. Theon can hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

“Are you all right?” Jon asks.

“Of course.”

More silence. Jon doesn’t believe him. “Father will want you present to receive the Night’s Watch brothers, I’d imagine,” he says finally. “You should… erm… dress,” he pauses and adds, “...better, and then meet him in his solar.”

“Right,” Robb says again. “I’ll — I’ll be there shortly.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine, Jon,” Robb says, voice getting tense. “I just — you woke me very suddenly.”

Disbelieving silence. He knows, Theon realizes. Always being privy to their arguments, passing messages between them when they refuse to speak to each other like a fucking raven, he must know. He probably already tried to wake Theon and found him gone. He knows, and he’s going to tell Lord Stark, and Theon will be beheaded.

“Sorry,” Jon says softly. “I hadn’t meant to.”

“It’s — it’s fine, I just. Just let me dress. I’ll see you in Father’s solar, all right?”

“Did you… sleep in that?”

“I… yes, I was — I was tired, last night, I didn’t… I’ll see you in Father’s solar, Jon. I need to dress.”

It sounds like Jon has more to say, but he doesn’t keep Robb from closing the door. Robb looks incredibly pale. He leans his head against the door and exhales, and Theon stares at him, waiting.

“Gods,” Robb says finally. “I’m sorry.”

When Theon tries to respond, his voice comes out a hoarse whisper. “I tried —” he clears his throat, pulling his rumpled shirt from his armful of clothes and beginning to dress. “I tried to tell you.”

“I know,” Robb groans, pushing away from the door. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re lucky it was only Jon and not your father,” Theon says softly. The thought makes his hands cold. He hadn’t let it sink in before now. “If he had seen me in your room like this, we could’ve been — I could’ve been —”

“Theon,” Robb answers, turning to face him. He’s still pale, but he’s trying to smile. He takes Theon’s face in his hands and looks him in the eye. “Theon, listen to me. I’m sorry. I am.”

The touch is startling, and Theon forgets himself for a moment. He nods, somewhat dazed.

Instead of changing his clothes, Robb helps Theon finish dressing. His hands are careful and warm, and Theon can’t find it within himself to refuse his help. Robb doesn’t look at him as he straightens Theon’s doublet for him. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he says quietly. It sounds like further apology. “I just wanted to — to hold you.” 

Cheeks burning, Theon’s eyes fall to his feet. He doesn’t have a response, so he says nothing. 

“I won’t let it happen next time. I promise.”

At that, Theon looks up, incredulous. “Next time?”

“I…” Robb deflates. “I’d hoped…”

Theon looks back at the door, as if Jon will burst through at any minute. “We — we have to… Robb, we can’t just — we have to be more careful. Do you understand? This could…” _kill me,_ Theon doesn’t finish. Robb bows to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I know,” he answers softly. “I know, I can be careful.”

It’s not true, not really, and if Theon is honest with himself, he’s not quite sure he can be careful, either. “Your — your father is waiting for you, little lord.”

“I suppose you should get going, then,” Robb chuckles. It sounds like a joke, the way he says it. Theon doesn’t know why it should be funny. 

He kisses Theon again before giving him a gentle shove toward the door. Theon stumbles, caught off-guard. His face is burning hot as he fumbles with the door, his hands still shaking. Robb’s little kiss had left him girlish and shy, and he ducks his head as he leaves Robb’s room.

The hallway is clear, not even a scullion or a guard to be seen. A smile breaks out on Theon’s face over his luck. He makes his way toward the end of the corridor, boots striking the stone floor. His heart is still pounding, and he knows he’s a fool, but the rush in his body makes him feel like he could skip. 

Turning the corner toward his own room, Theon runs headlong into Jon standing in the hallway.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

Jon jumps, eyes wide. “I — Greyjoy? What —?”

For several seconds, neither of them move. Jon Snow is not particularly clever in means such as these, but the realization dawns on his face before he can even manage to form a question. 

Theon blanches, watching the shock swallow him.

Without warning, Jon turns and races back down the hall. Theon darts after him, panicked he’s off to find Lord Stark, but Jon turns away from the Lord’s chamber, running away from where anyone else would be at this hour, toward the bridge to the armory. Theon can see the deserted yard over the bannister when he manages to grab Jon’s arm. 

Jon wheels on him and throws his hand off.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Fuck,” Theon repeats dumbly. Throat dry, he steps back from him, hands raised in surrender. Jon hates him more than anyone else in the castle. He’ll beg to swing the blasted greatsword onto Theon’s neck himself. He’s dead. He’s _dead._ “Fuck — _fuck,_ Snow, what the fuck were you doing?”

“I thought… I was worried about Robb,” Jon says breathlessly. “I was — he was behaving strangely and I —” It’s startling, when Jon’s voice breaks. He’s not looking Theon in the eye, face pink with humiliation. “I was just going to — I was worried.”

“Snow.” His voice is a rasp, barely a whisper. He looks over his shoulder, scanning the window over the yard for anyone who may see them. “Snow, please — you can’t tell anyone. Please. If Robb found out that you know it would crush him.”

“Why?” Jon asks. He’s scowling, sounding wounded. 

“You’re — you’re his brother. He cares what you think of him,” Theon offers, though there’s more to it than he can put to words. “It’s not honorable, what we’re doing.”

“Nothing you do is ever honorable, Greyjoy,” Jon spits. “Why should this be any different?”

Theon can’t say he doesn’t deserve that. He swallows, sure he tastes copper at the back of his throat. 

“Not for me, mayhaps,” he admits, “but this — for Robb it’s —”

“What are you _doing_ with him?”

Theon blinks, but Jon shakes his head the moment he realizes what he’s said. 

“Not — gods, no, don’t tell me that. How can he — how could he possibly want anything like that from _you?_ ” 

It’s no news how much Jon hates him, but the question still stings. Theon looks over the courtyard again, shamed silent. 

Jon doesn’t spare him any decency.

“What have you done to him? Have you forced him?”

“What? _No!_ ”

“You expect me to believe he’s willing?”

“Snow!” Theon feels sick in his throat.

“Have you?”

“You think he needs to be rescued from me?”

Jon surges, looking like he might strike. “If you’ve laid a hand on my brother, Greyjoy —”

“Why would he hide me in his room, if he had wanted you to know? Just now, if he needed to be saved from me, why did he lie to preserve the secret? He had the chance to tell you, not moments ago. If he — if he wanted you to know, he would have told you, Snow.”

“Even the fool he can be for you, no one is that stupid. Everyone else you drag into your bed has to be paid.” It isn’t true, but Theon doesn’t say so. “But Robb’s in no need of coppers, so why would he pick you? What is it you’ve done?”

Theon doesn’t know. He wishes he did. _He wants me, doesn’t he?_

Jon is waiting for an answer, and Theon’s throat feels tight. 

“I —” For just a flash, Theon considers telling Jon the truth. Robb kissed him first, in the godswood springs. Gentle and honest and like he could want him. But it isn’t Jon’s business what they’ve done, and it wouldn’t be fair to tarnish Robb that way. Instead, he shrugs, deflated. “I don’t know. I…” 

_I think he wants me. I hope he wants me._

“I don’t know.” 

That look is on Jon’s face again, as if he’s worried. Theon watches his expression for a moment before he tries again. “Please, Snow. Have mercy on him. I — he wouldn’t be able to take it. He’s still so —”

“Shut up,” Jon snaps, cheeks pink.

Theon has the good sense to fall silent. Of course Jon doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want to know this part of his brother exists at all. 

Swallowing hard, Theon mumbles, “Sorry.”

That takes Jon by surprise. Theon has never apologized to him for anything before. His eyes are soft again, whether he means them to be or not. “Fine, then. Have your secret, the both of you. Robb chose not to tell me. For whatever reason he would sink to such levels is apparently no business of mine.”

He’s not looking at Theon at all, eyes pointed over the bridge to stare at the courtyard below. Theon doesn’t defend himself, doesn’t chance it.

“Snow,” Theon whispers, voice still tight in his throat. Jon’s head tilts, but he doesn’t look over, eyes pointed out at the empty courtyard. “Snow, please, have mercy. You can’t tell — you can’t tell anyone. No one at all, please. If your father… if they find out they’ll kill me.”

Jon looks up at Theon then in disbelief. He scoffs, just barely. None of Lord Stark’s children can actually bring themselves to believe their father would execute Theon, it seems. Theon wonders what they think he’s doing here at all.

“I know that my death would only be pleasing to you,” Theon tries to joke, but it only comes out bitter and frightened. He swallows. “But it’ll — it’ll ruin Robb, as well, if you say anything.”

To Theon’s surprise, Jon looks offended. “You think I hate you enough to betray my brother?” he asks sharply. “You can’t possibly think I would — if his _mother knew..._ ”

Theon flinches. If Lady Stark ever knew what Theon had done to her darling firstborn son, she’d throw him to the hounds.

“The Seven might disapprove, but the old gods don’t —” 

“They are not your gods,” Jon snaps at him. “You needn’t tell me what my gods think. His lady mother surely won’t care what the old gods do or do not say if she finds you two.”

Guilt drops heavy in Theon’s stomach. “I know.”

They reach a stalemate. For a moment, neither of them speak. Theon looks at his feet, runs a hand through his hair and waits for the silence to pass. He’s afraid to break it himself again. Jon would only interrupt him if he tried. It’s strange, biting his tongue to keep the bastard happy. He’s never needed to do that before. The memory springs unbidden back into Theon’s mind — on his knees for Jon. If not because Robb told him, then just to buy his silence. 

He shakes the thought from his head. Jon would never want that.

Abruptly, Jon reaches and seizes the collar of Theon’s doublet, tugging him forward. With a yelp, Theon pushes him off.

“If you ever hurt him, Greyjoy,” he hisses, undeterred in his threat, “I’ll kill you.” 

Despite himself, Theon smirks. “Me?”

Jon doesn’t understand what’s funny. He’s furious now. Theon thinks he may kill him right where he stands, regardless. 

“I won’t have to tell Father or Lady Stark anything. I won’t have to say a word about Robb or what you’ve done. I’ll simply kill you in your sleep one night. I’ll steal a horse and take the black the next day. Do you understand me?”

“I wouldn’t —” Theon feels more than he cares to admit weigh on his tongue. He shuts his mouth and swallows. “I wouldn’t. I swear it.”

For a moment, Jon regards him with a withering look. Everything that Jon knows of him is the antithesis of what Theon is telling him now. Theon doesn’t know how to convince him of his sincerity. According to Jon, Theon hurts everyone. Sex is conquest to the ironborn, after all, and Robb is a Stark — honest and loving. Of course it’s advantageous for Theon to seduce him. If the heir is infatuated that only protects the ward’s position. Protects him if his father back in Pyke rebels against the crown. And Jon knows his brother, knows that beneath the front of a young lord that he’s slowly growing into, Robb has a tender heart. He’s only ever meant for one person, and whoever that is will be promised to him in time, it will not be Theon Greyjoy.

“I won’t,” Theon says a final time, though his voice is much quieter than it was a moment ago. 

There’s a flicker of a smile on Jon’s face. He’s never seen Theon this way. Grovelling. Scared. But the gloat is short-lived. Something changes in Jon’s face, and his scowl returns. Not his usual solemn pout, but something worse. Sympathy. Reluctant, but undeniably there.

Snow may not believe his lord father would execute Theon, but Jon is no stranger to the fear of stepping out of line. Perhaps if Theon were only frightened of Lady Stark’s wrath instead, Jon Snow would understand him better than anyone else in this castle.

That’s an odd thing to realize.

The way Jon stares at him makes Theon feel the same tremor of panic from hiding in Robb’s room. He wonders if this is how he’d looked at Robb, when Theon was ducked behind the door. 

“Father will be looking for you,” Jon says after a moment. “You’d do well to dress in fresh clothes before he finds you looking like that.”

Instinctually, Theon snarls at him, but he recovers quick enough before he says something he shouldn’t. 

“Aye,” he says through clenched teeth.

As he turns to leave, Jon calls after him. “Greyjoy?”

Theon turns, and Jon smiles, for just an instant. “If he ever again comes to me near tears over something you’ve said or done, it’ll be your last night in this world.”

“You’ve said,” Theon sighs.

He doesn’t look as frightened as Jon wants him to. Resigned, perhaps. It must frustrate him, because he waves Theon away as if he has any right to do so. Theon, despite himself, leaves as if he does.

Later, when Lord Stark finds him, he has Robb in tow. 

“Theon,” he says, sounding so serious that for a moment Theon thinks Jon went to him, after all. “Lads, I apologize. There has been a change in our plans. I won’t be preparing for the Night’s Watch recruiters. We received word from the Dreadfort this morning. Lord Roose Bolton’s son, Domeric, has fallen gravely ill. The boy is not expected to live. Lord Bolton has no other living heirs. I’ll need you to fetch a mount for me so that I may pay respects.”

Theon glances at Robb. He looks pale. “Just one mount, my lord?”

Lord Stark shakes his head. “I’ll be taking Jory with me as well, and a few guardsmen. Lord Bolton is not a man to ever see to alone, even in tragic circumstances such as these. But you will need to remain in Winterfell.”

From the corner of Theon’s eye, a smile flickers on Robb’s face. Theon pretends not to notice. “My lord?”

“While I’m gone, Robb is Lord of Winterfell. It will fall to him to see to the Night’s Watch brothers and their party when they arrive tomorrow.” 

Robb’s smile vanishes and he looks up at his father. So that’s why he looks so frightened. 

Lord Stark places a hand on Theon’s shoulder. “You are more needed here to see to my son than you’ll be needed at the Dreadfort.”

Warmth twists in Theon’s chest despite himself. He bows his head. “Of course, my lord.”

Lord Stark and his small party depart at midday. The family gathers in the yard in front of the eastern gate and Lord Stark wishes farewell to his wife and children. He gives Robb a warm hug and whispers something in his ear. Robb beams. He even claps Jon warmly on the shoulder, despite Lady Catelyn watching. He gives a nod to Theon before he’s off.

The castle always keeps a strange mood, when Lord Stark is away. Lady Catelyn is always far more sour when seperated from her husband. She is a kind enough woman most of the time but Theon knows a storm brews in her when parted from Lord Stark. Keenly aware of what Jon knows, Theon tries his best to keep the two of them apart, lest the bastard use his knowledge to turn Theon into her new least favourite.

At dinner, Lady Catelyn refuses to allow Jon any wine, so Theon switches his own full mug for Jon’s empty one when Robb isn’t looking. 

Jon eyes him suspiciously, but Theon only smiles. “No one deserves the punishment of sobriety, Snow.”

To his surprise, Jon smiles at him and drinks. 

Theon hopes it’s enough to keep his silence, at least for now.

Just after dawn the following morning, the Night’s Watch party reach the kingsgate of Winterfell. Robb is up early to greet them with Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik. It falls to him to make sure the brothers and their new recruits have places to sleep — though the unsworn recruits bed down outside the walls, per Lady Catelyn’s request — and to see them fed and resupplied. There are quite a few more men who have decided to take the black since the last time Theon remembers them coming to Winterfell. The party numbers about two dozen in total. Though he supposes he just never paid attention before, with Lord Stark in charge of it all.

It’s different, with Robb there to oversee. He has the mind to consult his mother and Maester Luwin about most things, but in the presence of the Night’s Watch and their recruits, he has to show the mindfulness of a lord, or such things will be remembered later, when he inherits the castle. 

Theon stays at his side, squire to Robb when Lord Stark is away. It isn’t quite the same, with Robb. He finds, the task is not quite as tiresome. Lord Stark treats him differently than Robb does, of course. More like a child than an equal. Beside Robb, Theon feels almost like the Hand of the King.

Still, at the end of the first day, poor Robb is obviously weary. Even with nothing but bastards and thieves to host, Robb takes great care to see to each of them. They take the Night’s Watch seriously in the North, and Robb’s own uncle is First Ranger. He intends to leave a fair impression with the sworn brothers. He’s kind to each and every man in his presence, and asks the brothers already sworn how his Uncle Benjen is doing, as if they’re just as much Robb’s family as Benjen Stark. Theon observes him with an odd sort of pride as he breaks bread with them in the Great Hall. He notices, from her seat, that Lady Catelyn watches him much the same way. Robb may not feel it as the responsibility rests heavy in his bones, but he is doing well. 

Bran, Arya and Jon all take interest in the stories the brothers are willing to tell. They respond gamely with tales of The Long Night and white walkers when Bran asks. 

When Rodrik has them doing drills in the courtyard, one of the brothers pulls Jon aside and compliments his swordsmanship, giving him a hearty pat on the back.

“We could do with a man like you, on the Wall, if you’re ever willing. Your uncle would be glad to have you,” he says cheerfully. 

After years of tormenting him with similar threats, Theon expects to see Jon scowl and insist he’s better than such things, but instead his face breaks into a wide grin. The recruiter doesn’t bother to tell the heirs of great houses such things, he knows they would never willingly shed their titles. Though it seems to Jon he’d been singled out because he’s better than the other boys. 

The smile doesn’t leave Jon’s face for the rest of the evening.

The day is incredibly long, and the night feels longer. Theon lies alone on his bed, finding he’s more exhausted than he thought. With all the extra bodies in the castle, neither Theon nor Robb have the confidence to go to any chambers but their own, even for a moment. Especially not when so much of their company is southern men who keep the Seven.

The next morning, Robb insists on serving the recruiters breakfast before they continue north. Theon can see how it’s wearing on him, gritting his jaw, second-guessing his every word, but it isn’t something anyone else besides his mother might notice. But Robb is genuine and kind, and eats with them in the Great Hall. 

This time, Jon sits among them, talking animatedly with one of the brothers of his uncle.

It’s late morning by the time he sees them off, carts restocked with provisions and supplies. Robb personally sees to the cleaning and care of the castle once they’re gone. The rest of the family goes about the day as usual. Lady Stark tends to the younger children after being away from them for the previous whole day. Jon begins practicing his sword drills with a renewed vigor. But Robb slips quietly back into the keep. 

The day winds down gradually. Robb is still exhausted from playing host all this time, Theon can see it in his face when they all retire to their chambers. 

Theon is dressing for bed when a knock at his door startles him. 

For one wild moment, hand poised shaking at the latch, Theon expects to throw back the door to see Jon, holding a knife stolen from the kitchens in his hand and ready to kill him. Taking the black must no longer seem such a terrible fate to him.

Instead, it’s Robb. His hair is unruly, the skin under his eyes is dark, and when he smiles, it looks tense and forced. Before Theon can react, Robb speaks, voice soft and honest.

“I wanted to — be with you, for a moment. If it’s alright,” he murmurs. 

A twinge of panic roots itself at the base of Theon’s skull. They will not be so lucky twice. And it will not be Jon who finds them, in Theon’s room. 

He opens his mouth, but Robb adds, “I won’t fall asleep. I promise you.”

Theon’s not sure if he means to play, so he stays quiet. He nods and steps aside. 

Robb breezes past him and sits comfortably on Theon’s bed, like he’s been doing it all his life, as if he belongs there. Watching him, Theon’s heartbeat shudders under his ribs. He takes extra care to close and latch his door shut behind him, stalling with imagined effort.

“Come — come sit with me,” Robb tells him. His voice is too worn for it to sound like an order. “Please. Theon.”

So it isn’t their game. Theon’s not sure how to respond, when he’s given a choice. He clears his throat. “I — alright.”

When Theon sits, Robb wraps his arms around him and pulls him close. He drops his chin onto the crown of Theon’s head and sighs. Uncertainty pulls Theon’s muscles tight, and he stiffens in Robb’s grip. Robb just holds him tighter.

“I know you said there shouldn’t be a next time. Of this.” Theon jolts, but doesn’t pull away. He’s not sure how Robb would react to that, not when he’s being tender. “But why not? You seemed to like it, when I treated you gentle. Why don’t you want that?”

“I don’t mind it,” Theon answers tensely. He shrugs before admitting shyly, “I like it.”

“But you don’t ask for it. Never once. Not like you ask for — for everything else. Why don’t you… you only ever ask me to hurt you.”

Finally, Robb drops his arms and they pull apart. He still looks so tired, and Theon feels a pang of guilt in his chest. He sits back, trying to give Robb space from him.

“Do you not — want —?”

“Stop asking me that,” Robb snaps. Theon falls silent. Robb sighs. “I want it. I do. You know that I do, Theon. It feels good, hurting you. It’s… it’s gratifying. I wish it weren’t true. I wish it wasn't, but it is, and —”

Theon says silent. Something twitches in his spine 

“I shouldn’t be so angry. I shouldn’t be so weakened by it. Why do I enjoy being cruel? What if that’s how I treat my wife? How can I hope to rule that way? I can’t be like that. They would… they would all be disgusted if they knew. I shouldn’t want to — I’m supposed to be strong and good. I’m supposed to be… good.”

Unable to help himself, Theon chuckles. When Robb glares at him, he holds his hands up in surrender. “Forgive my saying, Stark, but you have no reason to fear such things. You’re as decent as men come.”

Robb doesn’t smile. He stares blankly at the door. “I’m not.”

The laughter dies in Theon’s throat. He coughs. “The way we play isn’t — you’ll be free to treat me however you wish, when you’re Lord of Winterfell. It has no say on the kind of man you are, the way you treat a captive.”

At that, Robb looks at him. His eyes are cold. “Is that what you think?”

Theon blinks. He’s not sure if he believes it inevitable or just wishes for it. “I only —”

“Has my father ever treated you so cruelly? Has he ever even raised his voice to you? Struck you? How can you say such a thing?”

Shame coils in Theon’s chest. He shakes his head. “I only meant that — people will still think you a decent man, regardless of how —”

“That’s not _true._ ” Robb gets to his feet, and Theon sees tears in his eyes. This isn’t what he wanted. “Is that — Theon, is that what this means, for you? Is that why you want me to hurt you? You think it’s — you think it’s your _place?_ ”

“I don’t —”

“You’re a lord’s son. You don’t — you don’t belong here.”

For an instant, it’s his father’s voice, leaving Robb’s mouth. Theon swallows, panic crawling cold up his spine. “Don’t say that,” he whispers.

Robb falls silent, and Theon looks at his hands, restless in his lap. 

“You said you like it,” Theon reminds him, feeling pitiful. “You — you want to — you like being cruel. I can be good for that, when we’re men grown, when you’re a lord. You won’t have to fret over whether or not you’re cruel, won’t have to hurt anyone but me. I can belong here. You said you’d keep me if you could. I thought, perhaps… For that.”

“Gods, Theon, you’re not my _pet._ ”

The word sends a chill down Theon’s spine. Why can’t he be? Why _shouldn’t_ he be? He’d be a good one, to Robb. Loyal. Willing. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Robb wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a hug, burying his face into Theon’s neck.

“I don’t — I don’t ever want to hurt you,” Robb murmurs into his skin. “Not when we aren’t playing. Never for real. You’re — I couldn’t bear it.”

Theon swallows, and Robb pushes Theon back against his furs, climbing on top of him, pressing their bodies together. 

“If you didn’t want it I would never… Theon…”

Theon nods, feeling dizzy from the steady weight of Robb on top of him. “Hush, it’s fine. You needn’t worry. I want it, Robb. I do, honest.”

“Why?” Robb pulls away to look him in the eye. “Why do you want it? Why do we do this? You never told me. You’ve done nothing to deserve it, you know you haven’t. Why do you want —?”

He looks near tears, and Theon grabs his face. “You’ll rule over all the North one day, little lord. And you’ll — you will be good. You will be strong and fair and kind, just as your father’s done. I’ve seen it.”

“I’m not asking about —”

Theon isn’t finished. “But it’s so much, I know it is. All of it on you, your brothers — so much younger. And you — you’re so sure you’ll make a mistake. The worries of a thousand men will rest on you. Men you’ve never met, men you don’t even know.” Tears spill hot over Robb’s cheek but Theon pretends he doesn’t notice. He presses his forehead to Robb’s and sighs. “You just need — you just need to clear your head, sometimes. To do away with the worries of other men. No man can bear that sort of burden day and night. Isn’t that right, little lord? And you would never take it out on an innocent, I know you wouldn’t. You would sooner die. But you have me. And with me, it’s safe. And gods, it — it feels good to be safe, just for a little while. You’re always safe with me, Robb, you know that.”

“Theon —” Robb’s voice is raw, cracking under the pressure not to weep like a child, but he smiles. “When did you get so bloody wise?”

Theon laughs, hoarse from the lump in his own throat, Robb’s face breaks open with his own laughter before he leans forward and kisses Theon, firm and warm.

When they break apart, Robb looks lighter. His smile is easier, on his face. He stares back at Theon with such undeniable care that Theon feels an anxious laugh bubble out of him.

“You — you worry that you’re so unfit to be a lord because you have these unkind appetites, but you can’t even bear to pretend cruelties to your family’s captive without holding me like a woman, after.” Robb’s smile twitches, and Theon tucks an auburn curl behind his ear to keep it off his face. “You Starks and your fucking honor.” 

He doesn’t mention that their game did not lead them here now, to Theon pressed into his furs, looking up at Robb Stark like a new wife. How did tenderness become a part of this little tryst? And how had Theon come to crave it? Robb needs this too, he knows. Just being kind. 

Perhaps Robb simply wants him, regardless of who Theon is to the Stark family. Perhaps he’d choose Theon even if he weren’t his captive.

They lie together, side-by-side in silence as the fire crackling in the hearth by the door start to fade to a soft glow. Robb has promised he wouldn’t fall asleep, but he curls around Theon as if he’s allowed, cradling him to his chest. 

Theon starts to doze when Robb sits up to return to his own chambers. Theon huffs at the sudden cold at his side. He isn’t expecting Robb’s fingers to wrap around his wrist, and opens his eyes to the dark. The fire in his hearth has long since died, and the moon is too low to light the room. He knows Robb is there, inches from his face, but he can’t see more than a shadow. Silence stretches between them, until Robb’s lips brush over the inside of Theon’s wrist.

“Sleep well, Greyjoy.”

At the sound of the door shutting behind him, Theon pulls his hand back to his chest and falls back asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

After the bluster of visitors, the days after the departure of the Night’s Watch party go by rather uneventfully. Robb is still exhausted from his lordly duties throughout the castle each night, but not so distressed that he feels the need to come to Theon. 

Jon, for one, is less sullen once the Night’s Watch brothers have passed through. At dinner one night he mentions that he may take the black when he comes of age. 

Theon laughs at him. “It’s meant to be a threat when I say it, Snow.”

“Perhaps not anymore,” Jon answers teasingly.

Robb watches their friendly barbs from across the table with curiosity, but makes no mention of it at dinner. Instead, he offers to help Theon put his brothers down for bed again, and meets Theon in the hall on his way out of Rickon’s nursery.

“You’ve been awfully kind to Jon, lately,” he says without preamble.

Theon smirks. He isn’t, really. He’s just stopped being cruel. “Aye, I suppose.”

“Should I be jealous?” 

Theon stares at him. “No — no, of course not. Gods, Robb, how could you ask me that?”

Robb shrugs. “I know what you’re like. Always making eyes at the prettiest thing in the room. You always love spinning your stories of nights with the girls in winter town, letting everyone know how insatiable you are.”

That unbalances him. Why would Robb say that? After everything Theon admitted to him, everything Robb promised to never say again. He can’t possibly think he’d ever play their game anyone else. Certainly not with the bastard. Theon would never do anything for the bastard, no matter what he knows. 

Theon hardens his voice, “Listen here, Stark, I — I wouldn’t —”

But Robb’s eyes are twinkling as he steps closer, into Theon’s space. “I know you wouldn’t,” Robb says softly, “not with anyone, would you? Man or woman. Maybe once, but not anymore.”

“No, m’lord,” he answers, too quickly to think. 

They shouldn’t be playing when they aren’t safely tucked away somewhere private. But Theon lets the words sink in. _Should I be jealous?_ It doesn’t mean what he’d thought. Robb isn’t interested in giving Theon away. Theon isn’t an offering meant for the Starks. It has nothing to do with Jon at all, not really. The bastard could be anyone. Robb wants him all to himself, now. Jealous. Possessive. Theon likes that. The idea that another’s hands on him may get him punished. 

Breathy, he repeats, a little more put on, “No m’lord, I would — I would never.”

“Good,” he responds, voice low. “If you’re lying to me —”

Theon kisses him, hard and greedy, cupping the sides of his face.

It’s foolish. It’s _dangerous._ There’s a nursemaid just inside Rickon’s nursery tending to his bed. She could overhear them. She could walk out any minute and see. Theon’s skin burns at the thought. If they’re caught, maybe Robb would be forced to tell her what it is. Just a captive, fulfilling duties to his lord. This is where he belongs. This is why he’s here. _Please your lord. It’s all you’re good for, Theon. Do what you’re good for._

“ _Theon._ ”

The fog lifts, and Theon opens his eyes. Robb is pale, eyes wide and glassy, his mouth reddened with the kiss. His breath is coming out loud and short. He’s holding Theon as if he’d stumbled, halfway to kneeling on the floor. Theon’s heart leaps into his throat. What is he doing? He looks back at the door to Rickon’s nursery, still shut tight. There would’ve been no explaining it away, if she’d seen them.

“I — I’m sorry, I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking.”

Robb doesn’t say anything. He’s breathing hard. Theon blinks, and the edges of his vision fade back from grey. It’s an odd feeling, like sobering after a long night of wine and ale. 

He takes a deep breath as Robb helps straighten him, eying him curiously. 

“Are you alright?”

It’s humiliating. Robb won’t even want to play with him now, not if Theon can’t get a hold of himself. He’s going to get them both killed, at this rate.

“Yes, I’m fine, I just —” 

Robb smiles at him, and he feels even worse. He pities him now. He must. Robb must think him pathetic. 

He starts quickly for his own room, eyes pointed to the floor. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I —”

Before he gets too far, Robb snatches his arm. “Sorry what?”

Shivering, Theon sags against Robb’s grip, relief heavy on his shoulders. “I’m sorry, m’lord,” he answers at last. “It won’t happen again.”

Robb grins as he lets Theon go, blue eyes searing.

A few days on, Theon begins to test the limits of Robb’s budding jealousy. Maester Luwin receives a raven announcing Lord Stark’s return journey from the Dreadfort, and Theon feels the Lord of Winterfell’s impending return like a noose closing slowly. He must make the most of his remaining time with Robb as head of the holdfast. So, he is unerringly polite to the serving girls, compliments them whenever Robb is within earshot. He puts his efforts into treating Jon with inordinate civility in front of his brother, much to Snow’s confusion. It isn’t so bad, being kind to Jon, and it soothes Theon’s pride to know that the bastard less likely to turn on him if he’s nicer to him.

Theon lets him win at drills one morning in the courtyard, and Jon smirks when he helps Theon to his feet after successfully disarming him. 

Under his breath, Jon grumbles, “You must know this doesn’t change anything.”

But he’s smiling, and it looks genuine. Theon lets himself believe that it may change things, if only just a little. If only just that he may trust Theon after all. 

When Jon isn’t around to misunderstand, he’ll wink at serving girls, coo dirty, lecherous thoughts under his breath. But only when Robb is there to see. Only when Theon knows he’s watching.

He dares a glance over at Robb seated at the dais, eyes burning with a quiet fury. Theon squirms. He can feel Robb’s gaze burn right through to him, knows he’s pushing the limits. But curiosity compels him onward. How far are the limits of Robb’s patience? How will Robb require him to pay for his misbehaviour? The anticipation is thrilling.

Later in the evening, as Theon washes up from dinner in his room, Robb appears at his door. Theon tries to not let the excitement show on his face, but his hands shake. Robb’s face betrays nothing, perfectly stoic and unreadable. A sensible lord. 

Without a word, Theon steps aside to let him in, and Robb seizes him by the throat and throws him back against the door to slam it shut. The iron hinges creak and rattle. It’s so fast, Theon’s head spins. Robb presses against him, chest to chest, and growls against the shell of Theon’s ear. The sound makes Theon’s knees wobble, and he sags when Robb slides a leg between his thighs. Even if Theon wanted to resist, Robb’s grown so much stronger than him, it might not even matter.

“I know what you’re doing,” Robb hisses under his breath. “You think I don’t see through you?”

“No, m’lord,” Theon wheezes. His heels lift from the floor as Robb holds him at eye level. Lightheaded, he repeats, “No, m’lord.”

“You think I’ll forgive your slutting around? Dishonouring my family’s house, the generosity we’ve shown you? Is this how you repay us? You’re a disgrace.”

“M’lord—”

“Shut up!” Robb’s fingers squeeze in warning on his neck, “I’ll not hear it.”

Theon’s hands scrabble against the door, trying to support himself.

“You can try to make me jealous,” Robb husks against his ear, “but I know better. You would never dare defy instruction. You know who you belong to.”

Theon groans. His vision is blurring and it’s an effort to gasp past the pressure of Robb’s hand at his throat. “Y — yes, m’lord. I do.”

Robb drops his hold, and Theon stumbles panting to his feet.

“Say it, then. Say it. Who do you belong to?”

Dazed and warm, Theon opens his mouth to answer, but the look on Robb’s face makes him pause. He’s so beautiful, grinning and fierce, and Theon doesn’t want him to leave. Robb will leave, once he says it. He will, satisfied that his lesson has been taught, no need for further correction. Theon doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want _Good._ He wants, he realizes with a sick thrill, to be punished.

He raises his head, staring Robb right in the eye. “To your father, m’lord.”

Robb hits him so hard he staggers back and loses balance, dropping to his knee. When he looks up, Robb’s eyes are on fire, a cruel smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. He enjoys this, even if he doesn’t want to. 

“Defiant wretch. Clearly, I’ve been too soft on you, Greyjoy,” he says, his voice like steel. It makes Theon shiver. “Get me your hunting knife. Now.”

Nodding, Theon crawls on his hands and knees to his bedside, groping around for the knife under his mattress. By the time he digs it out, Robb is standing over him, looming like a shadow. He rips the knife from Theon’s hands and unsheathes it, tossing the leather cover to the floor.

Theon is trembling with excitement, stomach churning with pleasurable fear. What will Robb do to him, now that he’s disobeyed? How far will Theon let him go? He shuts his eyes and waits until the cold edge of steel settles against his cheek. Robb’s eyes are bright and close when Theon opens his eyes again. His hand is shaking, but the uncertainty that had been on his face the last time they did this is gone.

“You’d let me ruin that face of yours, Greyjoy?”

Defiantly, Theon meets his eyes. “I thought I’d have no choice, m’lord.”

Something passes over Robb’s face then. Dark, violent. It pulls Theon further down, leaning onto his elbows. He doesn’t break eye contact with Robb, not even when he can see the edge of the blade out the corner of his eye.

“You’re right,” Robb says finally. “A captive has no right to choose their punishments. I could take your eye, if I so wished to.”

The words make Theon dizzy, and his eyes fall shut again, if only for a moment. “Do you wish to, m’lord?”

“You’re no use to me without your pretty face,” Robb answers abruptly, pulling the knife away. “There’s no point in watching you suck my cock if I don’t like looking at you.”

Theon sways, and his forehead drops against the cold flagstone. His tongue is heavy in his mouth. “Yes, m’lord.”

“Sit up, you useless thing.”

Shakily, Theon rocks back onto his heels, vision swimming. His cock is so hard it hurts, and he’s squirming against himself for the slightest bit of relief. Robb watches with a curious tilt of his head, but says nothing for a moment.

“It seems you’re in need of reminding of who it is you truly belong to,” muses Robb, the edge in his voice lessened but not gone. “Would you like that? You want to be branded, do you? Marked like property?”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon slurs. 

Robb adjusts himself calmly in his breeches. He’s so collected, Theon hadn’t even realized he was hard. 

“Say it.”

“Want — want t’ be branded. Like property.”

Robb tucks the blade under Theon’s chin, holding his eyes. “Whose property?”

It’s serious now, Theon knows. He can see it in Robb’s eyes, icy and bright. He’s going to be punished for what he said before. If he cracks wise again, Robb will punish him by not marking him at all.

“Yours, m’lord.”

The blade pinches, just shy of breaking Theon’s skin. Robb smiles at him. “Good.”

The praise crashes like a wave over him, warm and whole. Robb pulls the blade away again, and Theon realizes he’d shut his eyes.

“Down. On your stomach.” 

Theon drops onto the flagstone, stretching his arms over his head, and shivers when he feels Robb step over him, one foot on either side of his waist. Robb reaches down and tugs the hem of Theon’s tunic, pulling it up over his head and off his extended arms with a little bit of effort. Skin exposed to the cold stone, Theon gasps, skin prickling. 

Above him, Robb makes a satisfied sort of noise. When he drops onto his knees, Theon can feel how hard he is, pressed into his back. 

He whimpers, and Robb grabs a handful of his hair.

“You really want this, don’t you?” Robb asks behind his ear. “You’re… you’re certain? You’ve — you’ve thought about it, even before.”

“Yes,” Theon keens, jerking in Robb’s grip, “yes, m’lord, I’m certain, please. Thought — thought about…” It’s too hard to think of what he means to say. He can’t stop shivering. Instead he whispers, “Please.”

“Be still.”

Theon tries to speak, tries to answer _yes, m’lord,_ but all that comes out is a moan. Under his skin, it is flames, burning him inside out. Having Robb on top of him this way is driving him mad, and he ruts instinctively against the flagstone.

“I said be _still,_ Greyjoy.” Robb’s free hand snags his hair, forcing him face down to the floor.

“‘M s’rry, m’lord,” Theon begs, head spinning. He tenses hard, trying to keep himself still. His limbs shake. “‘M sorry, please do it, please —”

“You _pathetic —_ ” 

The blade slices into flesh just below Theon’s shoulder, and he cries out. Pain simmers along his skin, twisting hot and desperate with pleasure, and his vision fades grey along the edges. 

“ — _useless_ —”

Another line, shorter than the first, just below it. Theon moans a sound like Robb’s name, though it could be a cry for more. He can’t tell. His mind is blank, full of snow. Quiet and soft and empty.

“ — _thrall._ ”

Another short line, right beside the last. Theon whines, nodding helplessly against the stone of his floor. Robb isn’t finished, dragging the blade through his skin again, the same long drag as the first. His flesh is on fire and his mind is fading as if he’d just drank milk of the poppy. He thinks he must’ve come in his breeches again, filthy and pitiful, but he can’t feel past the carnal sting in his back. 

Robb cuts him again, and again, each slice of the blade feeling less like pain and more like something pure and perfect. He doesn’t want it to stop. He thinks he begs, asks Robb to go on forever, but he isn’t sure the words ever make it to his tongue.

When Robb is finished, Theon is limp, drooling slack against the floor. His body feels like stone, like sand, like air. He feels a tug on his hair and blinks his eyes open to the red-tipped hunting knife pointed before his face.

“Taste it.”

Instantly, Theon opens his mouth and drags his tongue over the flat of the blade. He’s so pliant Robb could’ve told him to swallow the knife whole and he would have died trying. The taste stings, warm, metallic, and bitter. He expects Robb to ask him what he thinks, how it feels, but he doesn’t. Instead, Robb drops his hold on the knife and leans forward, laving his tongue over the blood welling up hot and tacky on Theon’s back.

He’s grinding his hips into Theon now. He’d be fucking him, Theon thinks, if not for the layers of linen between them. Theon whines and pushes back, helpless for it. If he could move he’d tear his clothes away. If he could speak he’d beg. Instead he only groans, trembling, as Robb holds his face against the cold flagstone by his hair and thrusts mindlessly against Theon’s breeches.

“Do you feel it,” Robb asks, “what I’ve carved into you?”

Theon whimpers and shakes his head, and Robb drags his nails over the torn skin. “It’s — it’s my father’s greatsword,” he pants against Theon’s ear. “A symbol of — the North, property of the North, because that’s — that’s what you are now. It’s another thing — I’ll inherit. Just — just like you.”

Theon’s eyes roll over white and he cries out, helpless and desperate. His hand flies out for purchase, reaching up and latching in Robb’s hair. Words fall from his mouth in a flurry of nonsense. He hears Robb keen against his ear as he shudders and finally goes still overtop him. 

He’s not sure how long they lay like that before Robb finally whispers, “Theon?”

He still can’t speak. It’s hard to even stay conscious. He feels as if he’s sinking to the bottom of the ocean. He opens his eyes and turns his head, trying to see Robb over his shoulder. Robb isn’t looking at him. His eyes are pointed on where Theon’s flesh is buzzing. 

He manages a grunt, and Robb looks up.

“I — did it… Was it too much?”

“No,” Theon answers. He tries to speak quickly, but his tongue still trips over the work.

Robb seems to trust him. He traces his finger along the wound, and it stings. Theon must react, because Robb looks up at him. Theon notices he’s shaking, and reaches back to take the hand planted on the flagstone by his head. He takes a deep breath and focuses, trying to remember how to form words.

“...You?”

A wet gasp leaves Robb’s mouth, and Theon distantly feels something that might be panic.

“No,” Robb says before it can fully form. “No, it was…” 

He can’t describe it any better than Theon could. His voice trails off, and he swipes his thumb over the bloodied lines in Theon’s skin. The hand covered by Theon’s is still shaking.

“Can I —” He swallows. “Is it alright to take care of you now?”

It makes Theon smirk. He nods, and Robb gets to his feet. He soaks a linen in the wash basin and rinses the broken skin. The cool water stings on his new wounds, tempering the hazy pleasant weightlessness of Theon’s body. It pulls him back down, somewhat, anchors him back in himself. He watches Robb come back to himself as well, frowning at the work he’s done as he wipes Theon clean. The tension bleeds from Robb’s shoulders, his hands turning delicate, gentle. He’s beautiful, as the dark fades from his eyes, face open and clear. His teeth worry his bottom lip as he presses the warm wet linen on his skin.

“I’m — I’ll be right back,” he says, getting to his feet. “I have to pinch some salve and bandages from Maester Luwin.”

“It’s not as bad as all that,” Theon grumbles, sitting up. There’s a rush to his head and he has to catch himself against the floor. The room spins as if he’s had too much wine. Robb frowns.

“I’ll be right back. Just sit tight.”

Robb peeks out the door before slipping into the hallway. Groaning, Theon gets to his feet, stumbling a little to reach the trunk at the foot of his bed to find fresh clothes. He rinses himself in the basin and changes before easing back onto his bed. 

He’s about to give up and go looking for Robb himself when he hears the tentative knock on his door. When he answers, Robb looks sheepishly at his shoes.

“Sorry,” he says, holding out the bandages and salve. “I had to — I had to change.”

Theon laughs as he steps aside. “Gods, I’d hope so.” 

Robb chuckles, but when he sets to work on Theon’s shoulder, he’s silent. Theon doesn’t say anything to disturb him, holding still as Robb winds the gauze over his shoulder and presses it down. It’s delicate, what they’ve just done, what they both just let happen. Despite everything, Theon knows when to bite his tongue. 

The salve Robb has smeared over the wound tingles coolly, and feels like relief. They sit without a word for a moment before Robb leans forward and places a kiss over the bandage.

Smiling, Theon looks over his shoulder. Robb is still staring at his shoulder intently, as if waiting for it to bleed through, or for the bandage to come undone. Theon doesn’t want him to worry.

“You’d make a good maester, little lord.”

Robb lets out a dry scoff. “I don’t think it — counts when I’m the one…” He looks Theon in the eye, and for a moment Theon thinks he may be struggling with the guilt again, but instead he says. “I’ll always think you’re beautiful.”

Theon snorts, “What?” 

“What I said, about — about scarring your face. If you ever… I know the ironborn think of scars like badges. They wear them with pride. I just wanted you to know that when you go back home, if you get any — I’ll always think you’re beautiful.”

His face is burning, and he looks away to keep from seeing the honesty in Robb’s face. “Don’t be stupid.”

Robb laughs at that, but Theon doesn’t know why. He puts on a frown, but Robb doesn’t fall for it, grinning wide and pulling Theon back toward him. 

“Lay with me,” he says gently, “I want — I want to touch you. Please.”

Theon goes easily, skin blazing from embarrassment. “Robb —”

Robb falls back against Theon’s furs, dragging him until Theon is braced over him on his elbows. It makes Theon dizzy and nervous, looking down at Robb. It’s not ever meant to be like this. Robb should always be the one looking down to him.

Clearing his throat, Theon tries again, “Robb —”

“Shh,” Robb lifts his head to kiss Theon’s neck, wrapping his legs around Theon’s waist and cupping the back of his head with his hands. “Shh, just let me — what you did, what you let me do. I can’t believe… you’re so… so beautiful.”

It’s so delicate that Theon’s heart trips in his ribs, and he instinctively tries to pull back from the indignity of liking it. 

Robb’s grip only tightens. His voice is raw when he tries to speak. “Theon, please… just let me…”

Nodding, Theon falls slack in his arms, placing his head on his chest. He glances up, watching Robb stare off at the ceiling as he rolls his hands over Theon’s arms. His eyes are so warm and open now. He’s changed entirely. The Robb who watches over his siblings, who speaks to his mother and father. The Robb Stark who the North will know as their leader. Genuine. Safe. He tilts his head down toward Theon. They watch each other silently until Robb’s fingers land on the bandage on Theon’s shoulder.

“It’s — it’s alright? What I did?”

Theon nods again. He wants to insist further, but he doesn’t have words, for what it was.

To his surprise, Robb’s eyes start to shine with tears. “I’m afraid I’m not — not the best artist —”

In an instant, Theon is on him, kissing the breath from him until he feels Robb’s hands on his face. “No, no, it doesn’t matter. I won’t hear it,” he insists, barely a gasp against Robb’s mouth. “None of it — nothing else…” 

He can’t think of what he’s trying to say and pulls away, dropping his forehead against Robb’s. His curls are tracked with tears against Theon’s fingers, and Theon’s head is still fogged and warm. The sting that pulls through his shoulder every time he moves is constant and it’s all he can think about. He’s of the North now. No longer ironborn. No longer a Greyjoy. He belongs to the North. To Robb. He doesn’t want to have to go home when his father dies. It isn’t his home. Not anymore.

Robb’s hold relaxes, and Theon looks up at him again. His expression is calmer than Theon can remember it being in years. The Lord of Winterfell has melted off of him. There’s no fear in him now, no panic or heavy responsibilities. The smile he gives Theon is lazy, drunk and easy, and Theon is helpless to smile back.

It’s Robb who moves first, cupping Theon’s face and pushing him back to look him better in the eye. For what feels like an age, silence passes between them. 

Robb lets out a shuddering breath, and the easy smile fades.

“I want to stay,” he whispers finally, his voice cracking.

Theon swallows. He wants that, too, so much it’s hard for him to understand and impossible to put into words. Finally, he answers, “I know you do, little lord.”

“Theon —”

Desperate, Theon kisses him, just to keep him quiet. He can’t hear him say it. He’ll crumble if he does, and Theon knows he’s going to. He’s a good and tender lord; his father’s son. He’d never do this with just anyone. This has meaning, for Robb Stark. Meaning Theon doesn’t want to think it holds for him as well.

“You best get to your chambers, Stark,” Theon tells him as he breaks away. “Morning will break soon enough.”

“You could — come with me,” Robb offers. “Without Father here, you could — no one will send for us.” His voice is watery and soft, and Theon aches to follow him. 

“Without your father here, it’ll be your mother who comes looking for you, Robb.”

Robb swallows at that. 

Theon kisses his forehead. “It’s best you go back.”

It’s effort, to pull Robb from his bed. Every movement further from the warmth of Theon’s furs, Robb stops to press his lips into Theon’s skin. When he stands, he kisses the bandage wrapped over his shoulder. When he pulls back, his fingers trace over it, the shape of the wound he knows is there.

“Good night, Theon.”

Theon can’t sleep, restless and twisting in his furs long after Robb is gone. He thinks of Robb splayed over him, holding him down by the arm, rutting into his hips, the burn of his shoulder. It had never felt that good before, not even the times Ros let him come inside her. 

Suddenly, he wonders what it’s like for Ros, when the men who pay the right coin spill into her as if she belongs to them. Does she feel owned, that way? Does she enjoy it? Does she feel the same overwhelming completeness when Theon pulls her hair and fucks into her?

He doubts it. Theon wouldn’t need coppers for what that was.


	10. Chapter 10

The next day, his shoulder burns. Every movement aches, and the bandage itches under his linen shift and boiled leather doublet. It actually does not hurt as much as Theon thought it would, not a deep lancing sort of pain he imagines would come from being wounded by the sword. Robb had not cut all that deeply. More than anything the cluster of wounds just stings annoyingly in a spot he cannot reach. It should drive him mad, leave him scratching and squirming in discomfort. But it’s nothing like that at all. His body is light on his bones, and even tracking through the stiff cold grass of the courtyard, he’s never felt so warm and comfortable. 

Robb feels it too, Theon can tell. He completes his drills with single-minded focus and eats his meals with a relaxed smile on his face. After eating with his family at midday, he even lets Arya spar with him in the yard, insisting it’s just a bit of fun when Lady Catelyn assails the idea.

At dinner, Theon gives Jon his wineskin right before Lady Catelyn’s eyes. “I haven’t the need for drink tonight, Snow.”

Jon frowns down at the wineskin, his eyes flickering to the calm smile on Robb’s face before looking back at Theon.

“Thank you,” he says hesitantly. 

Theon grins at him. 

Jon mouth twitches and he looks away. “Don’t push your luck with me, Greyjoy.”

At that, Theon laughs, and the sour look on Jon’s face cracks, just a little.

That night, Robb doesn’t come to him, up late with his mother and Maester Luwin going over numbers of what they’ve spent since Lord Stark’s departure. Theon retires early, stroking himself to the memory of the night before, focused on the stretch and sting of the skin at his shoulder.

The next morning, Theon pinches fresh bandages from Arya’s room after Septa Mordane has collected the girls for lessons. She always keeps a stock of salves and gauze under her bed to avoid running to the maester with all the scrapes and sores she gets playing knight with the serving boys. It’s easier to steal from an eight-year-old girl than it is the maester. If Luwin catches Arya restocking from his stores, he’ll turn the other cheek. Theon, he would question.

He unwinds the dirty bandage away in his room, standing over the mirror he has propped against the wall. He can see Robb’s work if he cranes his head. Red and angry, still fresh, the crude but unmistakable etching of Ice dug forever into his skin. Looking at it makes him feel drunk, warm and sated and reckless. He reaches over his shoulder, runs his fingers over it to feel the indention in his flesh. It’ll scab and scar. From now on, if anyone other than Robb joins him in the godswood springs, he’ll have to wrap his shoulder and pretend it’s sore.

Or perhaps he’ll let them see.

He cleans and wraps the wound and dresses as if nothing is different. Throughout the day, Robb claps his hand over the scabbing flesh on Theon’s shoulder, and Theon revels silently in the shock of pain it sends across his back.

With Robb so busy attending to the lord’s duties it’s easy for Theon to sneak out of the castle without being noticed. He grabs a mount from Hodor and rides into winter town. He doesn’t come here alone very often in the daytime, and hasn’t been through alone at all since he and Robb started their game. The day is overcast and damp, so Theon pulls the hood of his cloak up as his horse plods along the sodden dirt path, hoping he is not recognized by any of the townspeople. He passes a few of the smaller stone dwellings tucked under the huge spanning branches of the pines. White smoke curls up from the squat stone chimneys. Further toward the town he has to urge his horse through a wandering flock of goats, bleating in the rain. It’s a strange feeling, riding down this path again. He never thought he would feel so conspicuous. When he pulls up to the main road, he leaves his horse tied up outside the Smoking Log and walks the rest of the way to the brothel.

Ros greets him warmly, waving away the madame before she can pester Theon with silly things like prices or ask if he wants any specific girls. Theon smiles at that. It makes him feel favored. 

“Lord Greyjoy,” she says with a practiced giggle. “How good to see you, m’lord. I haven’t seen you in so long I thought you’d been married off.” 

He feels shy when she says that. He wonders, briefly if he made a mistake, coming here.

“No,” he answers, “not married.”

Her face falls, then shifts just into the barest hint of a smile. “Well then, lordling, where have you been? I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you in nearly four moons.”

“I —” Theon’s face is burning. He’s never been so shy in front of any whore, certainly not Ros. “Can we… can we just go somewhere else? To your rooms?”

Curious, Ros gives him a curt nod and takes his hand. She’s always like this, understanding when she feels it necessary. It’s why Theon’s always liked her best. She shuts the door behind them and turns to him with a sultry smile. 

“Well, I suppose you’re in no mood for smalltalk, if it’s been so long.”

She starts toward him, but Theon takes a step back. “No —”

Ros stops short, unable to keep the stricken look from her face. 

Theon frowns, feeling ludicrous. “I didn’t come here for that — I just wanted to… talk with you. Can we do that?”

Laughing, Ros shakes the jade pin from her hair, letting it cascade like silken fire down her back. “Gods be good, Lord Greyjoy. Never thought I’d hear such a deal from you. But you should know well enough that five coppers gives you my time to do as you wish.”

Incensed, Theon scoffs. “I — pay? But I don’t even want you to take your clothes off!”

“Then you’re taking time away from some man who does, little lord. We can talk about or do anything you like, but I’ll still need my coppers for the time.”

Glowering, Theon unties his purse from his belt and digs out five coppers. “You better be worth the conversation, then.”

“Not that you’d know it from your previous visits, Lord Greyjoy, but I know quite a lot about quite a lot.” Ros grins at him as she tucks the money away. 

Fuming, Theon sits back on her bed. It’s covered in fine silks as well as furs. As Theon stares at them, he wonders how often she must have to take them down for washing. He’s never wondered that before.

“Well I’ll feel bad taking your money if you’re not to speak at all,” Ros teases. “So what is it? Finally being shipped home to the Islands? Came for a final farewell?”

“I said I don’t want any of that,” Theon huffs. “I just — didn’t know who else to…” That’s humiliating. He can’t admit that. “Not a lot of women to talk to in the castle walls,” he lies finally. “I just wanted— I’m in need of advice, I suppose.”

Eying him with suspicion, Ros adjusts her soft linen dress and pulls a ceramic teapot from the cupboard at her side. 

“Would you like some tea, Lord Greyjoy?” she asks kindly.

Theon figures he might as well get a cup of warm tea for five coppers. He nods. As she busies herself, Theon wonders if he should just start speaking. He watches her for a moment, starting the fire under the teapot, before finally blurting, “Do you like it, when men pay to beat you?”

Ros’s hands stop working, and she looks over her shoulder, face stoic. “Sometimes.”

“Like when I’ve smacked your ass, or that time — that time with the silk ropes? Do you like that sort of thing?”

Relief washes Ros’s features, just for a moment. Theon wonders if she’d judge him, for liking it so much more than all that.

“Oh, aye,” she says gently. “You mean _along_ with fucking. That sort of thing can be quite fun, of course. You know that. I’m sure after all our time together you can tell when I like a certain thing more than another.”

He can’t, he thinks. Ros is exceptional at always appearing to like whatever her client decides for her. Though the time he’d tied her to her bed with silk ropes she hadn’t charged him nearly as much as he’d thought she would. He nods, and Ros leaves the water to boil and sits next to him on the bed.

“Have you found yourself a girl who likes it rough for free. Is that where you’ve been off to?”

Theon means to say yes, just lie, just make it easier, but the word sticks in his throat, and his mouth hangs open. He glances away, just for a moment, but Ros knows.

“Ah. Not quite. Found yourself a girl who taught you a thing or two about yourself?”

Theon looks at his lap.

“I suppose that makes sense, after a fashion,” she says with a smile, and Theon flinches when she pets his hair. He feels like a child. “You wouldn’t come for a whore’s advice if you’re the one liked doing the hurting. Anyway, you’ve never been quite as rough as any of the other ironborn come through here.”

“Watch yourself,” Theon snaps, and Ros raises her hands.

“Apologies, m’lord, I only mean it as a compliment.” She smiles. “You’re the only ironborn to ever asked me if I enjoyed my time on his cock.”

Theon doesn’t think that should count. That had only been the first time. He'd never been with a whore before, he'd only wanted to be sure he’d done what she liked. He says nothing, and the whistle of the iron kettle interrupts the silence. She strokes his hair once more and gets to her feet to return to the tea. 

“Well, if that is the case, I’m not sure what advice I can give you, little lord. There’s no shame in enjoying a little fight to it. Doesn’t mean it isn’t just as sweet as when it’s tender. Just don’t let her break your heart.”

Theon scoffs at that, but Ros’s smile is genuine, when she hands him the cup of tea. She seems so knowing and open when she looks at him that he feels as transparent as glass. 

“She must be someone special,” Ros hums before taking a sip, “if she’s made you forget all about me.”

“I haven’t forgotten you,” Theon mutters. “I just — promised.”

At that, Ros sits down a little heavier than she had before.

“A promise to keep honest from Lord Greyjoy! Gods be good, she must have a diamond under her skirts.”

“Would you shut up?” Theon snaps, beet red. 

Ros’s laugh is like a bell, and she tucks a fiery lock of hair behind her ear. “I thought you wanted to talk, m’lord.”

“Aye, I wanted to talk, not be bloody mocked.”

When Ros smiles, it’s soft and kind. She takes a sip from her tea. “So what’s it like, m’lord? The girl must be good at what she does, if even you’ve gone smitten.”

He wants to ignore her, but like a tick, it all falls from Theon’s mouth. The hitting, the hair-pulling, the grovelling. And how it feels, how it leaves him airy and pliant and sated for days. He uses no names or titles, and always slyly _she_ , but Ros listens intently. To her credit, she never seems the slightest bit surprised, not even when he confesses to the knife digging into his skin, though her eyes do flicker to his shoulder as he talks, as if she’s curious to see. He won’t show her. He does not tell her what the carving resembles. 

When Theon is finished, he feels lighter. Ros smiles, and he feels less deviant.

“I must say, you sound a very lucky man.”

Theon sips his tea, wishing it were wine.

“And she a very lucky woman.”

He smirks. “You think?”

“I’d say as much. Especially — is it always like that? All over, I mean? That foggy-minded airy business as you say. Does she get all that, too?”

Theon shrugs. “I — I think so. He says he —”

For a moment, time goes still. Theon’s heart seizes in his chest. He can’t breathe. He doesn’t blink. In a flash, he throws down the tea mug and bolts for the door.

“Wait —” Ros grabs for him, and Theon stumbles at the sudden tug on his arm. “Lord Greyjoy, wait, it’s alright. Don’t — don’t run off just yet. You haven’t spent five coppers, yet.”

Theon shakes his head. “Get the fuck off me. Gods, this was stupid. This wasn’t — I’m not — I’m _not_ —”

“Aye,” she says gently, smiling. “I’ve seen firsthand that you’re not. I hear it’s quite common in Dorne actually, to like either one the same, there’s not any shame in it.”

“I’m not some fucking Dornish slut,” Theon growls.

Rolling her eyes, Ros gives him a gentle tug back toward her bed. “Aye, you’re no slut at all, any longer.” Theon scoffs, but Ros’s eyes are soft. She’s smiling. “I won’t tell a soul, you must know that. The word of a whore might not carry much where you’re from, but it’s all a girl’s got in this sort of place. Besides, it’s not good business for me to upset my customers. What would I stand to gain from angering you?”

“A price on your head, most like,” Theon grumbles without any venom. 

Without answering, Ros tugs his arm again, gentle. She doesn’t try to be Robb. She knows it’s not her place. Theon sighs.

“It isn’t — it isn’t like that,” he says finally. A sad sort of defense. He doesn’t even know what he means as he says it. It unnerves him that Ros seems to. “We haven’t even — I’ve only…”

“Gotten on your knees, you said.” She’s smiling now, wider than she had been before. Theon wonders if she’s mocking him now. “You’ve never been with another man then, have you, m’lord?”

Theon glowers at her. “Of course not.”

“You’ll quite like it, I think.” Her hand is still on Theon’s arm, keeping him from storming off. “There’s a spot up the ass just for men makes it feel amazing.”

Theon snorts, shaking his arm out of Ros’s grip. “Don’t make a fool of me.”

“Whore’s honor,” she insists. “Done it quite a few times for all sorts, with my fingers and things. Turns even the hardest men to water in my hands.” Theon narrows his eyes, and Ros adds, “You’ll need oil, to make the passage smooth. It’s no fun otherwise. Not even if you like pain.”

“You’re lying to me —”

“And what use would that be, m’lord?” She says with that tinkling laugh of hers. “Expect me to be there, when you do the deed? Get myself a nice hearty laugh for fooling you?”

Theon’s throat goes dry at the thought. Ros watching as Robb fucks into him on his hands and knees, turning him into a babbling mess. A hook of arousal swoops in his gut. He says nothing. Ros doesn’t seem to notice.

“Honest, you’ll see.” Theon looks up at her then, and she amends, “Well, mayhaps, if you decide to try.”

Theon nods. “Thank — thank you,” he says finally. “For — the tea. And for not…”

He doesn’t want to say it. Ros understands anyway. She gives him a nod. 

“Here, m’lord.” She turns on her heel and goes back to her cupboard, digging out her purse. Instinctively, Theon holds out his hand, and Ros drops two coppers back into his palm. “If that’s all, it wasn’t so much as five coppers.”

Theon shakes his head. It feels silly, taking it back. “I —”

To his surprise, Ros presses a kiss to his cheek. “It was a pleasure, truly. If you insist on spending more coppers on me I’m always here.”

Theon returns to the castle without anyone having noticed he was gone. Some part of him, the part that still doesn’t trust this place, expected everyone to know somehow. Expected them to have overheard, now that he’s said it out loud. He knows he’s just being paranoid, but he can’t shake it. He stays out of sight for the rest of the day.

When he goes to Robb that night, it’s only to lie beside him. Both are too tired for more. The hardships of running the castle are exhausting Robb more and more as the days pass, and Theon feels strangely reserved after speaking with Ros, but neither of them mind. They lie together, side by side, and Robb’s fingers trace over the bandaged wound on his shoulder.

“What will you tell people, when it heals?” Robb asks nervously.

Theon turns and tries to read his face. “What should I tell them, little lord?”

The fire in Robb’s hearth is dying. Theon should be getting to his own room soon. But Robb’s eyes are glittering in the low light. He’s thrilled at the idea of Theon’s response being up to him, as if his own voice will leave Theon’s mouth if anyone were to ask of his scar.

Robb opens his mouth to answer, but the sudden slam of his chamber door cuts him off. Theon jumps to his feet, and the two of them freeze. For a split second, Theon can’t see or feel past the lightning of panic.

It’s dark, but the high pitched sniffling fills the room quickly, and Theon lets out a breath as he sees the tiny, dim figure of Rickon stumble into Robb’s room. When the young one sees the two older boys, he breaks into a loud cry. It’s dark, and he’s too hysterical and far too young to know what he’s walked in on. Theon has been in Robb’s room many a time when he’s barged in before, during daylight hours. Rickon doesn’t know the difference. He’s only thankful to have someone ready to hold him. He reaches his stubby arms out, little fingers grasping, sobbing and helpless for comfort.

Theon’s heart is still pounding in his ears as he kneels automatically to lift Rickon into his arms. He tries to sound confident as he rocks him, but his voice is shaking from the rush to his head. 

“Oh... Hush, come now, little lordling,” he manages, bouncing Rickon against his chest. “Wh — what’s happened?”

Robb is silent as he watches Theon sway Rickon back and forth. His hand is on his chest, feeling his own heartbeat. Theon smiles at him, understanding, as Rickon weeps against his neck.

“It’s alright,” Theon whispers, meant for the both of them. “It’s alright now, you’re alright.”

Finally, after some more coaxing about why he’s out of bed, Rickon babbles out a broken string of nonsense, some sort of horrifying nightmare. Through some deep-seated instinct, Theon plants a kiss on his wild curls. 

“It’s alright, little lad, we’ve got you now. Safe and sound.”

Rickon cries start to abate after what feels like an age. Theon rocks him softly back and forth, leaning from foot to foot, waiting for his sobs to fade. When Robb gets to his feet at last, he pets his hand over Rickon’s hair and looks at Theon.

“Where’s his nursemaid?”

Theon smirks. He keeps his voice low, though Rickon wouldn’t understand him even if he heard. “Probably in bed with a stable boy, I’d reckon.” He winks, and Robb frowns. “I’ve been fault of that once or twice, myself. Has he not come in here at night before?”

Robb nods. “I — yes, a few times, since he’s learned to waddle on his own,” he answers, remembering. His breathing is finally starting to slow. “Bran as well, I suppose, just — never when…”

“I’ve noticed,” Theon interrupts, grinning. The panic has twisted to an odd sort of giddiness, and he feels strangely invincible. “No matter, he’s just a babe. He won’t even remember, in the morning.”

Hiccuping, Rickon tucks his head against Theon’s shoulder, nestled tightly against the gauze wrapped over his skin. Robb looks down at him, smiling a little. When his eyes move back to Theon’s, he sees the urge to kiss him flash over Robb’s face.

“I should take him back to bed before the nursemaid finds him missing and there’s panic in the castle,” Theon says with a smile.

Robb blinks, nodding. He wants to ask Theon to come back once he’s done, but he knows better. It’s getting too late for him to stay, as it is.

Quietly, Rickon fusses, and the two of them look back down at him, burrowing grumpily into Theon’s side.

“Oh, hush, c’mon,” Theon coos gently, feeling less annoyed by the child than he ever has. “Off to bed with you, let’s go.”

Rickon whimpers something about wolves. It doesn’t do well for him to be afraid of such things, so Theon tries to chuckle as he shakes his head. 

“No wolves in the castle other than you and your siblings, lordling. You’ll be alright. Fiercer than any of them, you are.”

He can feel Robb’s eyes on him as he starts toward the door, but Rickon continues to whimper, and he can’t look back for fear of upsetting him. As he carries him through the torchlight halls, Theon remembers the way his mother used to sing to him, and tries to remember the words to her favourite shanty. Mostly, he only hums as he walks them back to the nursery.

“Gave us a bloody fright, you did,” Theon tells Rickon once he knows the boy’s asleep in his arms. “Gods willing you won’t speak of it come the morning.”

On his way back to his own chambers, Robb meets him in the hall, Theon’s shirt bundled in his hands. His face is pink as he hands it over, but he’s grinning happily, no longer panicked.

“You have a lovely singing voice, Greyjoy,” he says with a giggle. 

Theon snatches back his shirt. “Oh, shut up,” he snaps.

The teasing tilt to Robb’s grin fades, and he ducks to catch Theon’s eyes. “Would you sing to me, sometime?”

Cheeks burning, Theon shoves him. “Next time you stumble into my room crying like an infant, mayhaps.”

Robb’s soft laugh echos lightly through the hall as Theon walks the rest of the way to his room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a tad late. But my bestie's in town and I took time off work so I totally forgot the days of the week. Sorry!

As the sting on his shoulder fades and dulls in the following days, the ease in Theon’s mind starts to slip. He pines after the silent peace that swallowed him as Robb carved into him. He can’t ask for Robb to cut him again so soon, not when his skin still hasn’t healed from the first. He knows Robb too well for that. Sitting alone on his furs, he pulls, desperate, at his cock, but it’s not quite enough, not anymore. 

He remembers the hot line of Robb’s cock rutting against him like he were nothing more than an animal. He remembers Ros’s words; _turns even the hardest men to water in my hands._ Curious, he grinds back against his bed. It doesn’t feel like much, but when he sits up on his knees and presses a knuckle against his hole, it’s almost something. He shuffles his breeches off his hips and does it again.

It’s strange. Theon’s not sure if he likes it, but then his knuckle catches against skin and the tingle of it makes him gasp. He pulls his hand away and sits back on his heels, his breeches still pushed to his thighs. The Drowned God isn’t like the Seven. As far as Theon recalls, the Drowned God doesn’t care one way or another about sex between men. But the ironborn have their own opinions. Fucking a man isn’t any different from fucking a woman, but being the one to take another man’s cock is to be no better than a woman, yourself.

Staring at his hand, Theon thinks of Ros again. He doesn’t want that, to be a woman. He just wants to be Robb’s.

 _If you were a woman maybe Lord Stark would promise you to him,_ says a niggling voice at the back of his mind, and Theon’s heart skips, suddenly pulsing in his ears. _You could be the one to give him the heirs he’s expected to have. Your children would be his northern heirs._

Gods, his father would despise him. He’s meant to be the last heir, not some helpless bitch to sell to his enemy’s firstborn. He really is the useless thrall Robb tells him he is. 

The thought thrums warm in his blood, and Theon forgets the ironborn, forgets his father, his house and his dead brothers. What the ironborn think doesn’t matter. His father gave him away like a sack of gold to pay for his crimes. He doesn’t belong to the Islands anymore. He touches the healing scab on his shoulder. He belongs to the North. To Robb. They conquered him, they claimed him. He doesn’t have to be a woman, for Robb. Robb wants him either way. He reaches for the lamp oil at his bedside and stares at it.

Ros has shelf full of little coloured glass vials in her room, full of oils. Theon remembers eying them as he sipped his tea. They’re all lined up on her bedside shelf, each in its own strange bottle, all of different colours and smells. Theon doubts she uses lamp oil on all those men, but it’s all he has. The little flask of it is daunting, somehow. A threshold he’s yet to cross. He wonders if it would feel different, with Robb here. If he’d even think twice, long enough to realize what he’s doing.

For some reason, that seems more daunting.

 _“Go ahead, Greyjoy. You know you want to.”_ Theon closes his eyes. Robb isn’t there, far too tired after all his lordly duties from the day. But if Theon concentrates, he can hear him, that cold twist to his voice, when they play. _“You do want to, don’t you? Why deny it?”_

Theon nods, even though there’s no one there to see. It feels good, to pretend that he is. It makes his skin tingle. Robb would want to watch, if he knew what Theon were doing.

Dripping soft, warm oil on his fingers, Theon sets the bottle down and slides his hand over his opening. It sends a quiet little buzz up his spine. Shameful and warm. He pushes a finger in as far as it will go and groans. It doesn’t feel like much. Odd, but it makes Theon’s thoughts blur together.

_“Is that it, Greyjoy?”_

Theon shakes his head. “No, m’lord. No, I’ll do better. I want —” he pulls his hand back to push in a second finger, and the sound that leaves his mouth is too soft to be his own. Perhaps he is a woman, this way. He no longer cares, dragging his hand back to add a third before he can stop himself.

“Oh — _gods._ ” 

Theon thrusts back against his hand, the stretch driving all other thoughts from his head. Nothing matters. He’s not a man, not now, just a bitch in heat. He pushes his hand in and out of himself until the hand holding him upright goes out from under him, and he drops to his elbow. He can’t stop. The sting is everything. Stretching him full. The fog settles over his mind and he hears Robb whisper in his ear. _“That’s it, Greyjoy.”_

“Yes — _yes_ —” 

He’s on fire, he feels nothing but the warm drag of skin against skin, slick and fast. He feels Robb’s breath in his ear, but he’s not there. He knows he’s not. He can’t be. He pushes his fingers as far as they’ll go, rocking back onto his hand in the same instant, and his whole body jerks. He sees stars as the air seems to freeze and his heart stops in his chest. Robb’s name falls from Theon’s mouth as he does it again, his head spinning as he sits back onto his fingers to grab his cock with his free hand. His mouth falls open and he pushes down onto himself. He thinks of Robb’s face, eyes dark as he watches, and begs mindlessly to no one, not even sure if the words sound of anything by the time they leave his mouth.

“Please, m’lord,” he sobs, hips thrusting back against his hand so hard he can feel his wrist going numb, his other hand working his cock so fast it hurts. “Please — fuck me, fuck me — _fuck me —_ ”

When he comes, everything goes white, and he falls forward onto his furs. The room is cold as he comes back to himself, dark and empty. His skin is slick with sweat and come, but he’s too warm and sated to care. He pulls his hand free to wrap himself in the filthy wolfskin underneath him and falls asleep.

A few days on, in the afternoon, he goes back to Ros.

“I’d a feeling I’d see you again, m’lord,” she says, sweeping him into her room. “How is your intended?”

“Busy,” Theon answers flatly. He can’t say with what, but Ros doesn’t ask.

“Hopefully not too busy for you, lordling.”

Theon shakes his head. It isn’t Robb’s fault, he knows. He feels different now, speaking to her. Knowing firsthand the things she’s done to other men. Something’s changed between them. Something’s changed in him. He feels changed. Older, perhaps. Or maybe it’s that he feels younger. Part of him, he realizes with a tinge of disgust, is frightened. 

He hasn’t spoken, but Ros is watching him closely. She inclines her head and fixes him with a knowing look.

“You’ve done it, have you?” she concludes. 

On instinct, Theon wants to deny it, but he’s paid his money already. Lying would only waste his time. He nods, and Ros’s eyes soften. 

“And yet no smile on your face? That’s not the Lord Greyjoy I know. Did you not enjoy it then, m’lord?”

“I — it was… just me, on my own.”

“I see,” she answers, unsurprised. “Practice?”

Theon nods again. 

It’s humiliating, but Ros’s face betrays nothing. “Sometimes it takes a few tries before it’s any good, like with any sort of thing. Practice is rather smart.” She turns and fusses at her cupboard, and Theon pouts, feeling like she’s not even focused on speaking to him. “You wouldn’t want the boy to hurt you in a way that spoils the pleasure.” 

She stops what she’s doing and turns to Theon, holding out a folded letter in her hand, sealed with plain wax the colour of honey.

“What’s this?” he asks, taking the offered letter in his hand.

“Don’t read it, m’lord, it’s not for you. I wrote it for your intended.”

Theon raises an eyebrow. “ _You_ wrote this? You can write?”

“Aye,” Ros says with a wink. “That I can. I have my surprises.”

Flipping the letter over in his hands, Theon asks, “What does it say?”

“As I said, m’lord, it’s not for you to know.” She’s smiling, and Theon glares at her until she reaches up and tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear. “Nothing cruel, m’lord, I promise. I just want to ensure the boy knows you’ve been loyal. Word gets around in places such as these. He may hear of you stopping by a brothel to see your favourite girl and get a bit jealous, is all.”

Theon hadn’t thought of the gossip of whores. How hadn’t that crossed his mind? He feels foolish, and stares back down at the letter in his hands.

“I also just had a few words for him, one bedmate to another. It’s not just anyone could put a leash on Theon Greyjoy, is it?” The word _leash_ stirs something in Theon. Ros smiles anyway, as if she knows. “Now, you didn’t come for a letter you had no notion that I could write. So what can I do for you, m’lord?”

It seems a silly request, now. Theon looks back down at the letter in his hands. It feels wrong, never learning she could read and write before now. He thought he had known her. He’d always thought she was clever for a woman, but he’d still always assumed she was a typical lowborn whore, illiterate. Something like guilt twitches in his chest. Distantly, he wonders what Ros’s handwriting is like. Hurried childish scrawl like Arya’s, or careful and elegant like Sansa’s.

“M’lord?” 

“I wanted —” Theon hesitates and pulls his purse from his belt. “I thought I might buy some, well… I only have lamp oil, on hand. Does the trick fine, but I thought…”

Ros’s face breaks into a grin, and Theon gets the distinct feeling that this time it’s entirely genuine. It’s strange, seeing it now, the difference it has on her eyes. “You want to impress him, lordling? Of course.”

She turns to the wooden shelf at her bedside and runs her hand over the different bottles lined there. Theon glances over her room. It’s not the only shelf in the room stacked with bottles and strange objects. There’s a cluster of small glass bottles where Theon stands, just at arm’s reach. He picks one of the bottles up to look it over, and a long, thin shaft of ivory rolls off the shelf and falls toward the floor. Theon snatches it before it lands, and Ros looks over at the commotion. 

“Aye, lordling, I’m sure you’d enjoy that as well, but if you’re interested in taking it off my hands it’ll be quite a bit more coin.” 

Flustered, Theon sets it down, along with the bottle. Ros turns back to the shelves she’s facing. After a moment’s hesitation, she selects a blue glass vial with oil inside. She looks it over for a moment before turning back to Theon and handing it to him.

“This one seems to do wonders. A common favourite of my clients who like such things. It warms quickly. Has a nice little tingle.”

Theon stares at it before he takes it from her hand. “How much?”

With a shrug, Ros tosses her blazing red hair over her shoulder. “I’ll cut you a deal, lordling. Just a couple coppers. Think of it as a bit of a nameday present for one of my favourite clients.”

Blushing, Theon sputters. “It’s not my nameday.”

“No?” Ros says curiously, as if she hasn’t seen to him on his nameday every year since before he came of age. “Well, you’ve grown, still.”

Abruptly, Theon wants to tell her everything. That the boy she thinks is just some tender lowborn stablehand is actually the heir to Winterfell, and that Theon would give up all his titles and lands and very soul just to stay with him through the night and not have to worry. He wants to tell her that he’s scared, that it’s too much, and he’s not sure what to do. Robb will marry and make heirs, as a lord should, and there’s nothing he or Theon can do to stop any of it. 

Instead, all he says it, “He’s got red hair, too. Like yours.”

Robb gets it from his southern blood, but it’s not an entirely uncommon northern trait, and gives away nothing of importance. Ros smiles at him. 

“Aye, you’ve got a type, you do, m’lord. We’ve got tempers like wildfire, as well. Keep you on your toes.”

Thinking of Robb’s easy switch between playing and tenderness, Theon smiles. “Aye, I like that.”

Ros tisks, a warm little sound. Her face is unreadable, and Theon frowns, feeling teased.

“What is it?”

“I’ve seen that look on you before, lordling,” she says with a smile. “Last time it was meant for me.”

Embarrassed, Theon scoffs. “Don’t be a fool.”

“Oh?” Ros runs a hand through her hair, loose about her shoulders. She sounds proud of herself. “My mistake.”

Silence settles over them. Theon feels ridiculous, suddenly. He’s glad he had the sense to tell her nothing else. He digs the two coppers out of his purse with another three, and tosses them to her. She catches them with a perplexed look. 

“For your time,” he says, flashing her a smirk. “And the letter, I suppose. Though if I hear it’s all mocking gibberish and lying words about the talents of my cock, I’ll have your pretty head.”

Ros laughs, the warm ringing bell, and gives him a playful shove out the door.

During the ride back to Winterfell, Theon feels older. He hasn’t felt green for some time, but now, watching the path to Winterfell wind in front of him, he feels as if he had been, just a moment ago. The little vial seems heavy, lashed to his belt. It feels like too much.

Abruptly, he halts his mount. He should’ve spoken to her more. Asked her of other things she knows. How it feels for a man, perhaps, to fuck another. She won’t know firsthand, but he’s sure she gossips with the boywhores. There’s not much else to do, in a brothel, other than gossip. Perhaps he should’ve found one of them to speak to as well.

That thought settles heavy in his chest the moment it crosses his mind. He could never. Ros, he trusts, if only on her word as a whore. He’s never so much as spoken to any of the boywhores in the winter town brothel. Who knows what their word is like. Five minutes speaking to one and it could be known to all of the North the next day that Theon Greyjoy thinks of bedding unwed boys the same as tavern sluts.

The gate guards let him into the castle with warm greetings as he enters. They won’t know where he’s gone, but they also wouldn’t care if they did. No one other than Robb knows he’s gone honest, and Robb is nowhere to be seen. Far too busy with lord’s duties. Lord Stark should be back at Winterfell by tomorrow or the following day. That only makes it worse.

Before Theon changes out of his riding leathers into fresh clothes, he stashes the vial of oil in the cabinet beside his bed. The letter Ros had written falls from the folds of his cloak as he shakes it out. He swipes it off the floor and looks it over. In all his worrying during the ride home, he’d almost forgotten it, but now the sight of it excites him. He’s curious, but Ros had known better than trust him. Handing Robb a letter with a broken seal will only earn him condescension and disappointment. He shuts it beside the vial into his cabinet. He’ll give it to Robb later, after everyone’s gone to bed.

After letting himself forget it on the ride home, the curiosity of the letter consumes him throughout the day. Not knowing what it says drives him mad. He stumbles through his chores and at midday eats so little even Jon asks if he’s alright.

“Fine,” Theon tells him shortly. Jon scrutinizes him, and Theon scoots his plate toward Jon to try and change the subject. “Just not hungry is all. If you want the rest.”

“Are you trying to poison me?” Jon asks him, a hesitant smirk on his face.

Theon laughs. “I’m doing a rather poor job of it, if that’s the case.”

When Jon glances over at Robb, he’s already watching the two of them talk. Jon looks away from him, back to his plate. 

Without looking at Theon again, he asks quietly, “Has something gone wrong?”

It’s such a genuine question that Theon balks, looking over at Jon blatantly. “Gone wrong? I — is he upset?”

“No,” Jon answers honestly, stabbing the leftover helping of meat off of Theon’s plate and dropping it onto his own. “But you seem to be.”

His concern is so stunning that Theon forgets what’s bothering him, if only for a moment. “No. No, nothing’s wrong. I’m — I’m fine.”

Jon shrugs. In an instant, it’s once again nothing to Jon Snow if Theon is going mad or not. 

When Theon glances back at Robb, he’s staring. He can’t hear them from where he’s seated at the table, as Lord of WInterfell beside his mother, but Theon and Jon never speak so freely. Certainly never share food with one another.

Out of sight of the rest of the Starks, the letter resumes occupation in Theon’s mind. He shouldn’t show it to Robb. It’s unlikely that he’d hear of Theon going to the brothel with all the time he’s spent being Lord of Winterfell. He’ll never know. A letter from Ros would only worsen his mood, Theon’s sure.

At any rate, it’s probably only a page of foolishness. She calls Theon one of her favourite clients, but all she’s ever done is mock and tease him once they’re done fucking. It may just be the truth of their first time together, which Robb doesn’t know much of in honesty. Theon had embellished quite a bit when he returned to Winterfell the next day. Robb would only laugh, if he knew of his fumblings and shyness, that first time.

When nightfall finally comes, Theon sits on his bed and turns the letter over in his hands. The fire crackles merrily in his hearth, and he considers tossing it in when he hears a knock on his door. Hurriedly, Theon shoves the letter back into his bedside cabinet.

“Stark,” he says as he opens the door. “What — what is it?”

If Robb notices he’s nervous, he says nothing of it. He only smiles. “I just wanted — well I wanted to thank you, actually.”

Confused, Theon raises his eyebrows. “What for?”

“Jon,” Robb answers. “I know I — I teased you about it when Father first left, and I’m sorry for it, but… It’s really good of you to be so kind to him. It’s been a great deal of help to have him in such good spirits. He’s always so sullen when Father’s away. You know how Mother can be to him.”

Voice failing him, Theon nods.

“And you too, usually. I don’t know why you’re — but it’s done quite a lot to help his mood. I haven’t seen him smile so much without Father around since… ever, actually.”

“Of — of course,” Theon responds, voice hoarse. Of course the bastard is smiling. He could have Theon killed at any minute, if he wishes. “Aye, I — figured we’re not children anymore. We’re… old enough now to…” Theon glances over his shoulder, out the window, just to stop looking at Robb for a moment. “Well, it’s no use, being cruel to him all the time.”

Robb’s smile fades. “Are you alright?”

He wants to come inside, and Theon steps aside before he can stop himself. “Aye, fine, just — er…” The letter would be a good excuse for his actions. Before he’s thought it through, he confesses, “I went to the brothel in town today, to see Ros.”

Robb’s face darkens, and Theon shakes his head. 

“No, not — not like that. I just had to talk to her.”

“Oh, aye, she’s a good friend of yours by now, I’m sure. A conversationalist, she is.”

He sounds wounded, and Theon shakes his head, “Robb, no. She — here, she wrote to you even…” He goes quickly to his cabinet and throws the drawer open, handing Robb the parchment. “She wrote you this.”

Robb’s face is whiter than death. “You _told her_ —”

“No! No, not _you,_ just… I told her I was… Listen, just read it, would you? She wouldn't let me know what it said.”

Robb snatches the letter from his hands and breaks the seal. At first, his face is dark and pinched as he reads, but as Theon watches, a smirk flicks across his face. His other hand reaches up to hold the letter more firmly as he reads on, and he starts toward Theon’s bed, sitting back on his furs. Theon follows him, but when he tries to crane his neck to read over his shoulder, Robb shuffles farther from him. His face has softened now, a tender smile on his face, and Theon sits and watches him read like a scolded child. 

By the time Robb is finished, he looks as if there might be tears in his eyes. He looks up at Theon, and tension pulls at Theon’s throat as he swallows.

“What — what does it say?”

Robb smiles at him. He lifts he letter back to his face and reads from it with a teasing feminine trill, “ _Don’t let Lord Greyjoy read a word of this, I’ll never hear the end of it if he does._ ”

Pouting, Theon reaches for the letter, but Robb holds it to his chest. 

“No,” he says, his own voice back, if not a hint watery. “It’s mine.”

“She doesn’t even know you’re you,” Theon grumbles.

“She says as much,” Robb says warmly. “Though she says I must be the prettiest thing on two legs in all the North for you to change your ways, so mayhaps she _does_ know it’s me, after all.”

Theon scoffs. “She did _not,_ let me see.”

“No,” Robb says again, grinning as he folds it up and tucks it into his belt. “I would not betray a loyal subject’s confidence. I’ve already shared too much.”

“You have not. I don’t believe that pretty bit. Let me see, I’ll never let her know.” 

He lunges for Robb, but Robb catches him by his wrists and falls back onto his furs, chuckling to himself. Theon tries to wrestle out of his grip, but Robb holds him still. Something warm and safe rolls up Theon’s spine at the sound of Robb’s laugh, and he sticks out his tongue.

“I didn’t even have to show you! I could have just read it myself and burned the damn thing and you’d never known.”

“Aye,” Robb answers. He’s still smiling, but his voice has gone serious. “You could have done. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I —” Theon’s voice catches. It’s not teasing anymore. He doesn’t have any answer but an honest one. The firelight dances over Robb’s face, lighting up his eyes. Theon’s shoulders fall loose, and Robb’s grip slackens. “I didn’t want to lie to you.”

Grinning, Robb tugs him down by his wrists, pulling him into a kiss. It’s so sudden and tender that when he pulls away Theon blinks, dazzled.

“I know,” Robb says, voice barely above a whisper as he lets go of Theon’s hands to cup his face. “That’s why —”

He doesn’t say it. Theon tells himself he would’ve said something else, anyway. Robb pulls him down to touch Theon’s forehead to his own. For a moment, neither of them speak.

When Robb finally does, his voice is warm and tired. “Sing to me.”

“Little lord,” Theon mumbles, shy, “your lord father will reach the castle by morning. It’s best you —”

“Sing to me,” Robb repeats over him, “Please.”

Theon still doesn’t know the words. He rolls onto his side, and Robb presses tight against him, pushing at his chest until Theon drops onto his back. 

Robb crawls halfway on his chest and repeats softly, “Please, Theon.”

Theon still doesn’t know the words. He makes up his own, when he stumbles. Most of the time they don’t rhyme. They rarely make any sense at all, if Theon thinks about it, so he tries not to. His voice feels raw and ugly as he mumbles his way through the lullaby, but Robb doesn’t seem to mind.

He worries Robb has fallen asleep when he finally lets the song fall away. He doesn’t want to wake him, though he knows he should. Robb’s curls are soft and warm under his fingers, and Theon feels lulled by the calm, the gentle in and out of Robb’s breathing. The soft hum of water pulsing through the walls of the castle. It’d be so easy to sleep this way.

“Theon?”

Theon blinks. The way his heart sinks is foolish; petty. They can’t stay this way at night. Lord Stark will come to retrieve him, in the morning. Swallowing, he nods. “What is it, little lord?”

“Will you still sing to me when we’re grown?”

It’s a stupid question. The answer is no, and they both know that. Theon will be shipped back to the Iron Islands when they’re grown. Robb will have a lady wife to sing him songs, if he so wishes. Someone with a voice like gentle rain, who knows all her songs by heart.

“Aye,” he says instead. “Whenever you like.” 

They lie in silence for a moment. Theon feels himself fading when Robb sits up, but something ticks in his brain when he doesn’t hear Robb get to his feet. Theon glances over to see him staring at the open drawer at Theon’s bedside. It’s several seconds before he remembers what else is in there. Theon props up on his elbow, embarrassed, but Robb pulls the vial out without a word.

“Is this why you went to Ros?”

“I — well, I —”

To his surprise, Robb tucks it into his belt, beside Ros’s letter. Flustered, Theon sits up fully, but Robb is already on his feet. He wishes Theon goodnight and then he's gone.


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Stark and his guardsmen arrive in Winterfell before dawn, and the castle breaks fast with a welcoming feast, though the mood is muted. Domeric Bolton had passed before Lord Stark even made it to the Dreadfort. The boy had been laid to rest in the crypts beneath the castle. The household had mourned their young heir, apparently well-liked in his lands. A quiet boy with a fondness for riding, the only son of Lord Bolton and his late wife. Lord Stark, having already made the journey, had stayed longer than intended, to tend to the Lord’s misery, and when his wife and children receive him in the yard, the tragedy of it rests heavy on his shoulders. Normally reserved in his affections, Lord Stark embraces his wife, kisses both his daughters on the cheek in front of all the guards and household. Theon looks away, finding the display oddly uncomfortable.

After breakfast, Lord Stark calls each of his children into his solar separately, the death of Domeric Bolton having spurning something deep in his place as a father. Robb is called first and stays the longest, then Sansa, then Arya. Later, Bran is led away with Rickon in tow. Lord Stark speaks even to Jon, as if he’s just as trueborn as the rest.

It’s a surprise when Jory comes to Theon’s door and tells him Lord Stark wishes to see him as well. At first, Theon assumes Lord Stark only needs his services, and he enters the room with his back straight and voice even. 

“My lord?”

Lord Stark is seated at the wide stone bench by the room’s large window. There’s a large book open in his lap, but when he looks up at Theon, he sets it aside and stands to greet him. 

“It’s good to see you, lad. Come in, please. I wanted to speak with you, Theon, if that’s alright.”

Theon looks back over his shoulder at the closed door. Lord Stark had called him here, addressed him by his name, but it still doesn’t feel as if it’s something Lord Stark would say to him. His voice is tender, now. Meant for his children. Theon feels small and weak, the nine-year-old boy Lord Stark had shushed gently in his arms when he first cried at leaving home.

“Aye, of — of course, my lord.” 

He steps inside, and Lord Stark gestures to the empty bench. Theon scurries to sit down, keeping his back straight, his squire face on. He can’t imagine what Lord Stark would want from him.

Suddenly, panic hits him. Does he know? Had Jon told after all? Perhaps someone found that blasted letter Ros had written Robb, told the lord upon his return. Lord Stark is only being kind in his final moments before sentencing Theon to his death.

“No need to look so shaken. I only wanted to thank you, Theon,” Lord Stark says with a smile, and the panic leaves in such a jolt that Theon has to grip the edge of the bench.

“Wh — what for, my lord?”

“For aiding Robb, in my absence. I know my departure was sudden and unexpected, but I could not be prouder of how you all handled yourselves. But more than that, Lord Greyjoy, I want to thank you for your loyalty and duty to my house. You’re getting older, nearly a man, now, and you’ve spent more years of your life here in Winterfell than in your homeland. I know that it’s unfair to you, having to be here, so far from home, to pay for the crimes of your father. And certainly, you weren’t always easy to manage as a child, but you’ve never given me reason to distrust you, never once.” It’s not fair he should say that now. Theon swallows back a lump forming in his throat. Lord Stark goes on, not noticing, if the look on Theon’s face gives him away. “You’ve been a brother to my children, especially to Robb. He sung your praises to me, all the aid you’d given him while I was gone, with the Night’s Watch party, managing the boys, and all else.”

Theon doesn’t know what to say. Guilt is swallowing him up from the floor. “Oh —”

“Even Jon mentioned you’ve been in a fair mood.”

“I — yes, well, he — Jon and I have had our differences, my lord, but I —”

He feels faint. Is this all an elaborate joke? Some vivid sort of nightmare? His heart is beating so quickly he sees spots in front of his vision. He says the first thing he can think that won’t take his head.

“He’s not so bad, Snow.”

Lord Stark chuckles, and drops his hand on Theon’s shoulder. It’s the bandaged one, and Theon feels sick in his throat.

“He said the same of you, if I recall. The two of you may find allies in each other, yet.”

Doubtful. Theon nods.

It’s not fair. This is all he’s wanted from his lord, ever since he was a child plucked from home. But it comes too late. It isn’t fair he gets it now, when he doesn’t deserve it it all. Lord Stark wouldn’t say a word of this if he’d known the things he’d done while he was away, every moment he and Robb can manage when no one else is looking. Theon is not his son, will never be his son. Even now, when Lord Stark tells him he’s made his own place, it isn’t true. It might have been, if Theon hadn’t ruined the heir to the Stark lands. But Robb’s tainted, now. Banished to the Seven Hells of his mother’s gods. He’s doomed, and it’s Theon’s fault, and it’s not right, that Lord Stark says these things. Not now. Not after he’s ruined it.

Theon’s hands are shaking as he stands. “Thank you, my lord,” he manages, voice trembling.

He wants to leave, but he doesn’t know how to. They’ve never spoken like this. Theon isn’t sure he can ask to be excused or if he needs to wait to be dismissed. Perhaps Lord Stark wants Theon to speak more freely, but Theon can’t.

“Alright,” Lord Stark says, patting Theon’s shoulder. It’s the other one this time, unmarked. “I know the ironborn are unaccustomed to such displays of affections. I don’t mean to make you feel childish with this sort of thing.”

“No,” Theon says flatly. He wishes it could mean what Lord Stark wants it to. “No, my lord, thank you for your kind words.”

Lord Stark smiles at him, tinged with sadness. Young Domeric Bolton’s death has touched him deeply. Theon wishes he could embrace him, the way his children must have, after their father spoke to them like this. But he can’t move. And Lord Stark would only push him away, repulsed by his transgression. He hasn’t felt allowed to hug Lord Stark since he was barely older than Arya. He certainly shouldn’t now, after everything he’s done. He feels like a fraud.

Gently, Lord Stark sighs as he gets to his feet. “You may go, Lord Greyjoy, that was all. If you can send for a servant girl to bring me a hot pan for my bed, the trip has left me very weary.”

Theon blinks back tears. “Of course, my lord.”

For rest of the day, Theon can’t breathe. He can’t think. His whole body is on pins and needles. Robb notices, but seems unsure of what to do. When he touches Theon, he only flinches away. Theon retires to bed shortly after the children, and doesn’t answer the door, when Robb knocks in the night.

When he dreams, it’s of standing beside Robb, under the heart tree, and he wakes in the night, his face wet with tears, but his chest lighter.

The strange dream haunts him the next morning. Theon had never spared too much thought to the holiness of the godwood, despite the many hours he’d spent there. To him, the grove had seemed like a large garden once he had grown used to it. When he had first arrived in the North as a child the trees had startled him, growing taller and straighter than a ship’s mast, older than the walls of Winterfell themselves. But he had grown to like the godswood. It was easy to hide in, and safe from bandits and shadowcats and all the other terrible dangers that lurked in the North. When he had begun his sword lessons Robb had introduced him to the hot springs and the godswood became a haven of rest and quiet.

But now Theon’s thoughts turn to the heart tree, the weirwood, that unsettling northern feature of the godswood. It bore heavy crimson foliage no matter the season, large, broad leaves that would rustle and stir against ashy white bark. Ruby sap bled from the rough-carved face in the trunk. It was a pungent resin that was impossible to get out of clothing Theon had discovered one day when he’d decided he wasn’t scared of a damned northern tree. The bark was old and cracking where the carving was done but fresh wet sap bled forth every day regardless. Lord Stark would sit before the heart tree with his greatsword after an execution, carefully cleaning and sharpening the huge Valyrian steel blade. Theon did not know what to make of that. Perhaps the old gods were more bloodthirsty than he thought, or perhaps, despite all outward appearances, Lord Stark was a deeply superstitious man. Either way, Theon was disturbed by the heart tree and its limbs flowing with traitor’s blood. 

There had been no weddings in Theon’s time at Winterfell, but he knew that northerners married under the heart tree, before the unnerving carved face for the old gods to witness. It was said no man could tell a lie before a heart tree, but Theon had learned this was not true after he and Robb and Jon had tested it as children. The three of them had dared one another to face the weirwood and each tell a lie. The tree only creaked its limbs in response. 

And then later, when he had been older, Theon had lost his virginity in sight of the heart tree. He remembers laying back against the mossy floor of the forest, looking up at the highest branches, seeing the red blot of the heart tree’s canopy, having the breeze carry stray weirwood leaves into his hair.

It had seemed ridiculous that the old gods would spy on him from the fake eyes of a tree. He liked the godswood because it provided solitude, not superstitious mysticism.

But now, he wonders, what would it be like to stand before the ghostly weirwood. Would its blind eyes be able to see into his heart this time? Could he hide anything from the old gods? Would they recognize Ice, scarred onto his back, accept his blood from it like they accepted the blood of oathbreakers and deserters? Would they recognize him as one of their kind, a fellow carved offering to the North?

What if he were to stand before the weirwood with Robb, like he had dreamt of? Would the old gods be able to see into their hearts? Would they be pleased by what they found?

Theon doesn’t recall much of his native religion, to his shame. Such lessons had bored him as a child. How he wishes now that he had paid attention. Not that he was ever an especially devout boy, and he does not expect he will become one as he grows old, but seeing how the northerners cling to their own gods in the face of southern rulership made him long for a connection to his own resilient homeland. 

The Drowned God had no holy places, no temples, for the whole sea was his temple, and the sea was everywhere on the Iron Islands. Given that, the holiest place in the world was the deck of one’s own ship. But Theon cannot remember the last time he went sailing with his father or his uncles as a boy. The last time he had been aboard a ship was when Lord Stark had taken him away. It was pointless, it seemed. He had spent so much of his life in the presence of other people’s gods, perhaps his own would not have him any longer.

He struggles with the thought of having to return to the Iron Islands. It’s shameful but it’s true. Once, nothing had given him more hope, more strength, than the thought of returning to his homeland. Surely the people would be glad to see him return, the lost heir of Pyke, stolen by the greenlanders. But of his father, he was less certain. His father was a bold man, a brave man, Theon remembers, but a forgiving man, a kind man, he is not. Theon supposes he may never see his father again, only being permitted to return to the Iron Islands after his death. Perhaps if his father fell ill, Lord Stark would permit him to go tend to him while he lay dying.

But that would mean never returning to Winterfell. Leaving the North. Leaving Robb.

It’s so unfair. It’s unfair that he should have to choose. At last he has found something in the North that he wants, something that makes him feel wanted, but he’ll only have to give that up too, when the time comes. Will they be able to tell, when he sets foot on the Iron Islands? Will they see what he’d let the lord’s heir do to him? Turn him into a wailing slut, a bedwarmer, a thrall. The symbol of the greenlanders he had begged to be branded with, would they see that too? When he returns he must keep the scar hidden forever. If anyone ever saw it, they would throw him from tallest windows in the Bloody Keep.

What would he tell his wife when she asked about it one day? 

But then what if he never returns home? What if his father lives a long and healthy life? Would Theon then have to remain here in the North, wifeless and childless, nothing more than a steward to the Lord of Winterfell? With him went the last of his father’s line. Perhaps he would have no heirs either way. He had promised that to Robb, once, in the mad fog of their game, but in the sober light of day the ramifications weigh heavy on his mind. 

It’s a trap. It’s infuriating. Robb, the Iron Islands, home. To want either is to betray the other. Theon bristles at the injustice. He could not even want something in the privacy of his own mind without being a traitor.

The dream has come to him several times, he and Robb in the godswood, but it is deserted. Somehow, Theon knows, with the certainty of dreams, that there is something lurking deeper in the godswood. Wolves, he thinks. But he is not frightened. In his dream, he knows, the wolves in the godswood are not to be feared.

Robb is standing before him, dressed in his finest clothes, not the usual plain, worn leather doublet and woolen cloak, but a fine linen tunic with the direwolf sigil embroidered in silver thread along the hem, lambskin gloves, and a fur-lined cloak. Theon notices he is dressed with similar formality, his best clothes, despite such dress never being needed for the godswood.

But then Theon knows why they are here, before the heart tree, before the old gods. So he unclips Robb’s fine fur cloak and lays it before the weirwood’s carved face. Robb lays on his back on the silver fur, stripping his tunic off without having to be told. For some reason, Theon knows that he simply can’t speak. Speak, and he will wake. Speak and it’s over.

He is here to claim Robb Stark in sight of his gods. Theon kneels over Robb, saddling a leg on either side of his hip. He pulls his hunting knife from his belt, the one Ned Stark had gifted him. Robb doesn’t react at all, not with excitement, not with nervousness. He only watches, looking up at Theon with passivity.

Sitting on his thighs, Theon bends forward over Robb’s chest, bracing one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Robb does not move or shift, not even for comfort, just lays slack nestled between the white gnarled roots of the heart tree. 

The face of the weirwood watches them, blind bleeding eyes staring. A shiver runs through Theon. The limbs of the tree stir and the crimson red leaves shudder and rustle in the wind above their heads. The earth murmurs beneath them. Whatever strange unseen beasts are stalking beyond the elms and sentinel pines quiet and still. For the first time, Theon is certain that something sees him. Voices chatter, calling in strange, hushed sounds. Not words of any tongue but there is meaning in them, he is certain. 

Theon takes his knife. He points the tip to Robb’s breastbone, resting softly against the unblemished skin. Robb watches him and does nothing.

In the dream, he is certain, steadfast. The tip of the knife sinks into Robb’s skin. A small bead of bright red blood wells up from the tip of the blade. With a firm stroke, Theon draws a long, shallow line up Robb’s breastbone. The skin parts like soft leather, opening a red line on pale skin. Quick and light, Theon carves another matching line before the blood wells up too much and obscures his work. Working from memory, the sigil should not look so even, so detailed, but in his dream his every cut is perfect. Never too deep, never mismatched. Even the arms of the kraken are easy to incise, reaching in curls up beneath Robb’s throat. Blood pools and trickles over the planes of Robb’s chest, rolling off his sides in thin red trails, smeared where Theon had wiped it away. His hands are red but the blood does nothing to slick his grip.

He is almost done when suddenly his steady hand falters and the blade sinks into Robb’s chest up to the hilt. Theon yelps, but cannot hear his own voice. In a detached sort of shock, he knows the knife should not slip in so easily, knows there are ribs and muscles that should snag and resist him. He’s cleaned enough game in his life to know. But the knife sinks right in as if through sand. Theon finds he cannot will his arms to remove it.

Robb doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch beneath him. Only trembles at first, then coughs, and blood spills from his mouth. Theon jolts off of him, crouches by his head beside him, tries to call Robb’s name, but it’s like trying to speak underwater. Robb’s body shakes and when he lifts his head more blood comes from his mouth, running down chin, dripping onto the fresh bloodied kraken sigil on his chest, over the hilt of Theon’s knife still lodged in him. He tries to push himself up but his arms collapse beneath him. Silent, but in agony, the heir to Winterfell gasps and convulses, bleeding into the earth, staining his holy white tree. Theon screams and tries to move but he can’t. His limbs are dead. The roots have him. The weirwood knows he’s a traitor, can taste the northern blood he’s spilled, and it pulls him away.

Always, it’s then that Theon bolts awake, breathless and aching and drenched in sweat. The dream fades quickly, fleeing to the sicker corners of his mind pieces and flashes until he can hardly picture it. Blood dripping on the heart tree, his silver knife buried in flesh, a red kraken. His arms hurt from gripping the sheets in his sleep. Always, he reaches beneath his mattress to ensure that his hunting knife is still there.

When day breaks, he goes about his tasks, tries to think no more of it. He wakes the children and takes Bran to his archery lesson. He doesn't fool Robb, who hovers slightly, at breakfast, unsure of what to say or do for Theon. When Theon treats him normally, he only asks under his breath, “Are you alright?”

“Aye, just tired,” Theon tells him. “Good to have you back at the tables with the rest of us.”

Robb grins. “Miss me, did you?”

It’s such an honest smile on Robb’s face that Theon forgets to feign offense. “Aye,” he answers, smirk twitching at his face. “I did.”


	13. Chapter 13

The next few days, Robb is gentle with him. It’s as if he knows, somehow, what Lord Stark had said, or the dreams plaguing Theon’s sleep. They lie side-by-side at night, or roughhouse good-naturedly in the springs, and Robb always holds his face, when he kisses him.

Perhaps it isn’t bad, what they’re doing. Just because it’s a secret doesn’t make Robb unworthy of being a lord. Maybe it’s possible that Theon hasn’t ruined anything at all. All lords have secrets, he knows. Secrets are not always evil things. Even good Lord Stark has a bastard son, and dreams can just be dreams.

He tries to put it from his mind. It does no good to dwell on it. No matter what he wishes, Theon is in the North. He is bound to Winterfell, and there is no amount of wishing or dreaming that will change that for the time. It’s a fortnight following Lord Stark’s return and Winterfell starts to return to its normal state of affairs. Lady Stark’s mood improves markedly with her husband back at her side. Sansa and Arya trail after their septa. Maester Luwin is able to return to his tower, resumes lessons with the children. In the yard, Robb is present more often at drills with Jon and Theon. An ease settles over the castle. Everyone is in their rightful place. 

The sun is still rising the morning that Theon opens his door to Robb standing before him.

“Stark —”

“We’re going hunting,” Robb says warmly. “You and I, just the two of us. Dress for riding.”

Theon can’t say no, not when Robb is looking at him like that. He nods, and Robb grins at him, and watches as Theon gathers his things.

The air is warm for the morning, even with the mist that’s settled on the moors. A breeze tickles Theon’s face as his horse keeps pace just beside Robb’s. Robb is quiet, though he usually tends to be in the earlier hours of the day. Theon had been surprised that Robb offered a hunting trip so eagerly. He usually only prefers such things around midday. He seems determined from where Theon can see him, as if already tracking something. They can’t be. They aren’t even headed toward their usual spots for deer. Theon hasn’t heard a single animal other than their horses and a few songbirds. Robb has only just been allowed to go on hunts without supervision of Jory or one of Lord Stark’s men since his last nameday, but he is not one to get lost. Theon’s confusion bleeds into his horse, and it whinnies and tosses its head as it walks on.

When they reach a meadowed clearing, Robb halts and dismounts without a word. He leads his horse to a tree and secures his reins tightly around the trunk. When he sees Theon watching from the saddle, he starts for Theon’s horse. Robb pulls the reins from Theon’s grip, taking hold of the horse’s bridle and leading it toward the young saplings at the edge of the clearing. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t speak at all, just leads Theon’s horse like Theon were a child. Robb secures the reins to another nearby tree. For a moment, Theon doesn’t feel as if he can breathe. He’s sure his heart stops beating in his chest. This isn’t a hunting trip at all.

“Come down.”

Theon clears his throat, making sure his eyes are more curious than excited. He’s not sure they’ve started yet. “What is it? Have you found something?”

“Come down, Theon.”

It’s impossible for Theon to deny him when there’s that bite to his voice. He dismounts, regarding Robb with a scoff when he offers Theon a hand as if he were a lady. He doesn’t take it, if only because he assumes Robb is teasing him. When he steps down he looks up at Robb expectantly.

“What’re you —”

Before the question leaves his mouth Robb has Theon by the hair, ripping him downward until Theon drops obediently to his knees. The thrill and shock send Theon’s heart in his throat. He falls silent, head tilted up to look at Robb’s face. 

Robb stares down at him, eyes dark. “You told me what you wanted, were you to earn it from me.” 

Theon’s back goes rigid. Robb can’t possibly mean to fuck him here. He can’t mean to fuck him at all. Theon hasn’t earned it yet. He knows he hasn’t. He’s not earned anything at all.

“M’lord —”

“Do you still want it?” Robb asks, speaking over him. 

Theon nods, eyes wide. “Yes, m’lord. Of course.”

“Good.” Robb no longer carries a tremor in his voice when he speaks to Theon this way. He is no longer unsure, or frightened of himself. Not with Theon. He reaches out and strokes Theon’s face with a gloved hand. “Strip for me, then, Greyjoy.”

It feels like a trick, after so long since they’ve spoken of it. The idea springs to mind that Robb somehow knows the things his father had said to Theon. He bows his head, Robb’s hand slipping from his face.

“M’lord —”

“It is not an offer.”

Theon’s mouth is dry. He nods. “Yes, m’lord.”

As Theon tugs his clothes off, he takes notice that Robb does not. Unbidden, he remembers the vague fantasy he’d had when they’d started this — when Jory had caught him in the armory daydreaming about licking mud and grass from the soles of his boots. When he folds his clothes, he kneels to set them at Robb’s feet. Robb hasn’t said a word to him in what feels like hours, and Theon can’t help himself, leaning forward to drag his tongue over the soft leather of Robb’s boot.

Robb watches him blankly. He seems to read his mind and lifts his foot from the grass so that Theon can lick the grimy sole of it. The filth filling his mouth drags his bones down heavy. The cold dirt on his tongue is better absolution than the heedless words of Lord Stark. This, Theon deserves.

“Do you think this to proves you’ve earned my honor?” Robb asks. “Debasing yourself this way? Do you think you’re desirable, cleaning my boots with your filthy mouth?”

A chill runs down Theon’s back. He looks up and swallows, the taste of dirt thick on his tongue. “No, m’lord.”

Robb is telling him to stop, Theon is almost sure, but it feels so good that Theon doesn’t think he can. He leans down to do it again, licking the sole clean. His mind is already fading blank, body like wet sand. It feels right, doing this. He’s not good enough for Robb’s cock, not good enough for the approval of Lord Stark, but he can busy his mouth in other ways. He can’t be Robb’s brother, but he can be useful.

Pain bursts from his chin all throughout his skull. Robb’s expression is frustrated. It takes a frantic second for Theon to realize Robb kicked him in the mouth.

“Get off me,” Robb growls. 

“S — I’m sorry, m’lord.”

Face throbbing, Theon falls back on his heels, waiting for permission. It doesn’t matter what for. Permission to sit alone in these woods and wait for winter. 

“Look at you,” Robb hisses through his teeth. “You’re no lord at all.”

Theon nods, this tongue tripping in his mouth as he answers, “No, m’lord.”

“Nothing more than a thrall, really. A thrall just especially for me.” 

Theon can’t tell if he means it as an insult or praise. His eyes are bright and flashing, but his tone is almost a snarl. Still, it feels like praise. It’s all Theon truly wants to be. He nods, eyes fluttering shut. Robb snaps his fingers, and Theon’s eyes fly open. 

“Yes, m’lord,” he whispers, rutting against nothing. “Yours. Especially — especially for you.”

“There’s a good lad,” Robb murmurs, running his gloved hand through Theon’s hair. He feels precious, this way. Like gold. His eyes slide closed again. 

This time, Robb cups his face. Gentle. “Are you cold?”

“No, m’lord.” Theon’s eyes blink open at the question. The touch on his skin is like fire. 

“Good,” Robb says with a nod. He unclasps his wolfskin cloak and lays it flat in front of Theon. When Theon stares at it, Robb gestures, taking a step back. “Go on. Kneel on the furs.”

Hesitant, Theon crawls forward until his knees nest in the soft wolfskin. When he looks back up at Robb, he’s smiling, almost warmly. Almost like he isn’t playing. 

“Your bandage, as well,” he says, “It’s healed enough, take that off.”

Nodding, Theon unwraps the gauze from his shoulder. The sticky salve tingles as fresh air hits it. Theon sets the gauze down in the grass and rests his arms in front of him, back straight, head bowed. He doesn’t look up at Robb again, not yet. He waits for permission. Out of the corner of Theon’s eye, Robb’s fingers are deft, tucking into his belt. When he holds out his hand to Theon, he’s holding the vial of Ros’s oil. 

“I want to watch you. What you do, with this.”

It’s a moment before Theon reaches out to take it. His bones feel heavy in his flesh. He hesitates when Robb begins stripping his own clothes away. Theon gapes, open-mouthed, and Robb narrows his eyes.

“Now, Greyjoy. Don’t make me wait.”

Starting, Theon nods. He watches Robb’s face as he pours oil onto his hand. He remembers doing this in his own room, pretending Robb could see. It’s a rush to his head, watching him now. Robb has never been nude when they’re like this, other than the slightest tease of the game they play when in the pools. It’s different, seeing him now. They’re not playmates bathing together. The wiry arms of his youth since muscled from drills, his angled chest dusted with hair, the way his hard cock sits between his legs. Theon licks his lips at the sight of it, but Robb makes no move toward him.

They are not here for that.

Theon doesn’t take his eyes off Robb as he works a slick finger inside himself. He whimpers at the barest stretch, and Robb inclines his head, staring. Shame burns through him, making it hard to focus. Theon pushes his hand in and out, crooking his finger just slightly. The oil is hot on his skin and the pressure lights up along Theon’s spine. Words fall from his mouth, unbidden.

“ _Fuck,_ that’s —”

Robb’s tongue runs along his bottom lip as he watches. “What is it, Greyjoy? Too much already?”

“No, m’lord,” Theon babbles, sliding in another finger. “It’s not — not enough, want —” His voice fails him, rasping as he bucks against his hand. His mouth falls open as he forgets himself, falling into the rhythm of skin on skin.

Robb watches, enthralled. “Oh, I know what it is you want,” he croons when Theon doesn’t finish. He leans down to cup Theon’s face. His thumb drags over Theon’s slack mouth, skin soft and warm. “Tell me how much.”

“More than anything,” Theon answers instantly, tongue lolling out against Robb’s fingers. His skin is thrumming with a flurry of sensation and it’s hard to focus. “Give — give anything for you to… fuck me, m’lord, please — I want — I’ll —” It’s too difficult to speak. His body is rocking mindlessly against himself, his wrist sore, fingers numb. “S’good,” Theon whines, losing his balance, falling into Robb. 

“Gods, look at you,” Robb tisks, tucking Theon to his chest. 

He’s hot to the touch, and Theon keens, burrowing into him. He’s rutting against four fingers now. His vision is greying, Robb’s face standing out against the distant blur of trees and sky. He tries to speak, but he’s not even sure what it is he attempts to say. Robb’s own fingers run over his arm, down his back, brushing against where Theon’s disappear inside him, and for a moment, everything goes white.

“Please —”

Robb’s voice is sharp against his ear. “Please _what?_ ”

Theon’s not sure he manages to answer. Only knows what he wants to say. “Please m’lord, please fuck me.”

A hand rips at Theon’s hair. “On your hands and knees,” he snarls, throwing Theon backwards.

Theon’s face hits the wolfskin, his hands too slow to break his fall. He withdraws his fingers and forces himself up, facing away from Robb. He’s trembling. He can barely manage to support himself for the way his arms are shaking. He hears Robb clear the distance between them, the soft padding of his bare feet stepping onto the wolfskin. Barely audible, Theon hears a gasp. It’s soft, not meant for him, and an instant later he feels the brush of fingers over the healing scar on his shoulder. It’s a gentle trace at first, as if Robb has forgotten how to play, but then nails dig into the mark, scratching down until Theon cries out.

Afraid to look over his shoulder without permission, Theon keeps his eyes on the wolfskin under his hands. For a long while, he hears nothing. Robb is still as a stone behind him. 

Swallowing thickly, he tries, “M’lord, pl — please.”

“Be patient, or you’ll have nothing but your wants,” Robb snaps, his hand cracking across Theon’s hip.

Helpless, Theon nods. He says nothing else.

It’s another moment before Robb picks the discarded vial up from where Theon left it on the wolfskin, and longer still before Theon hears the slick sound of Robb smearing oil onto his cock. The sound trips something. Panic. Need. Staring down at the fur beneath him, Theon feels his heart in his throat, pounding in his ears. Not even his dreams ever let him have this. He never thought Robb would deem him worthy. Theon never has.

Without warning, one of Robb’s fingers slip into him, slick and warm and not his own. Theon reacts without thinking, gasps as he shoves himself back into Robb’s hand. It’s no different from his own hand, not really, but it’s not his hand at all, and Theon’s mind reels.

“Gods, yes, that’s it — fuck me, please —” Robb gasps, and Theon babbles, helpless for it. “ _Please,_ m’lord, I want — want your cock, m’lord. I beg you — please —”

“Gods, Greyjoy, you pathetic _wretch._ ”

Keening, Theon nods, rocking back as Robb teases another finger into him, curious.

“Path — pathetic,” Theon repeats mindlessly. He can’t stop rocking, can’t think. “Pathetic. Yes, m’lord, please —”

“Say it again,” Robb hisses, his hand working forcefully into Theon. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your cock,” Theon pleads, lightning riding underneath his skin. He can’t feel anything other than the strain on his knees, the fur under his hands and the fingers inside him, blazing his thoughts away to nothing. “Please m’lord, I need — need you t’ fuck me.”

“Gods, you’re so — _greedy,_ ” Robb growls, digging the nails of his free hand back into the scar on Theon’s shoulder. “Shameless. No lord at all. Look at you. The way you — beg —”

Robb’s voice is strained, desperate. Mouth hanging open, Theon falls onto his elbows, dropping his head onto his forearms.

“Please, m’lord.” He sounds as if he may be sobbing, but he can’t feel if there are tears on his face. “Fuck — fuck me, I’ll be — good, a good thrall for you.”

A long, heavy sigh ghosts out over Theon’s back. “That’s it.” 

When Robb’s cock slides inside him, Theon screams. The stretch burns, hard and relentless, and the pain mutes everything else. Snow. Silence. Theon doesn’t feel like he’s in his own body. He can’t feel anything but ecstasy. 

“Gods,” he hears, soft and frantic behind him, “ _Theon —_ ”

For an instant, nothing moves. Nothing at all. Theon’s lungs feel like stone in his chest. The wind stops blowing against his skin. Theon shivers, a chill rolling through his spine, and Robb’s hips jerk forward.

“ _Gods —_ ”

Theon isn’t sure which of them speaks, but the air around them unravels, and Robb claws at him as his hips start to move in earnest. Theon gasps. He can’t feel anything that isn’t the touch of Robb’s skin. He has no desire to, not ever again. Nails dragging over his back, burning fresh lines into his skin. Hips slamming forward, fucking into him like a Dothraki bloodrider. Theon’s mind is numb and the world falls silent. Nothing exists outside the blissful pain of Robb’s cock splitting him open or his nails grinding into torn flesh, claiming.

“You’re — you’re so —” 

Robb doesn’t finish, and Theon isn’t sure he’d understand him if he did. He’s losing track of his thoughts. His mouth feels as if it’s running, but he isn’t sure he’s speaking Common Tongue at all. Hands plant on Theon’s hips, gripping bruisingly tight and hold him still, and Theon gives into it, falling limp into Robb’s hold and letting him work him relentless over his cock. 

Whimpering, Theon collapses further, his chest resting against the fur with his arms thrown over his head, hands grappling for purchase in the cloak underneath him. 

Helpless, needy, he whispers, “ _Please._ ”

“Shut up.”

With a snarl, Robb drops his hold on Theon’s hip to shove his face into the fur cloak so roughly Theon can feel the hard ground just beneath it, rocks and twigs digging against his cheek. Robb moves faster, harder, and Theon’s eyes roll back in his head. Robb’s fingers tangle in his hair, and Theon’s vision goes black, his ears deaf to sound. All he knows is Robb’s cock pounding into him, conquering him, and his own straining heavy between his legs. Desperate, Theon reaches for himself, just to ease the pressure, but Robb’s hand snaps out of his hair and pins Theon’s wrist to the fur.

“No,” he growls, and suddenly Theon is ripped upward, his back slamming against Robb’s chest as open air hits his front. The change of angle inside him makes Theon’s head spin, air snatched from his lungs. “Not — not allowed. You hear me? You'll never touch yourself again unless I wish it. You belong to me now. I'm — I'm the only one can touch you, Greyjoy.”

He sees him then, over his shoulder, eyes blazing and black as they stare Theon down. Sweat clings to Robb’s curls, pressing them flat to his temples, and Theon can’t respond for the reverence he feels. He nods, and Robb throws him back down onto the cloak, slamming into him with renewed force. 

Theon’s skin is on fire, burning away, leaving nothing. Keening, Theon ruts back, desperate to meet his thrusts. He's nothing other than this. Not anymore. Not a lord, not a man, not even a woman, now. He's nothing but a warm, slick place for his lord to put his cock. His lord drives into him, harder than he can thrust back, and he gives himself over to his lord’s hands; to his cock. He doesn’t know where they are, what day it is. He’s forgotten his own name, but it doesn’t matter. He no longer needs one. He’ll never be anything other than this, and it’s all he ever should be. He will never fail at being a hole, perfect warm and slick his lord’s hard cock. It's all he'll ever need to be. His lord comes with a shout, filling him hot and sweet like a dog does a bitch, and the world falls apart underneath him, grey and soft and so, so warm.

For a time, there’s nothing. Just peace.

“Theon?” Blue eyes close to his face, hands warm on his skin. “Theon, you’re — are you crying? Did I hurt you?” He can’t answer. Lips brush his face, tucking soaked curls behind his ear. “Gods, Theon — that was — that… Theon, are you alright? Please say something—”

“I’m —” His chest is heaving. He can’t think. “I’m nothing,” he manages finally. “Noth — nothing…”

“Shh.” Arms wrap around him, holding him tight. Warmth and safety envelope him, soft lips in his hair. There’s no argument, just touch, soft and calm against him. Heartbeat thunders quick and panicked in his ear when he’s tucked against a strong chest, naked and shivering and damp with sweat. “Shh, it’s alright. You’re alright.”

Theon remembers himself in stages. Slowly. Pieced together like a mended doll. He blinks a few times, and the woods resolve in his vision. When he looks up, Robb smiles, holding him close.

“There you are,” he says tenderly, kissing the corner of Theon’s mouth. “That’s it, there you are.”

Theon doesn’t speak. For a long time, Robb doesn’t ask him to. He wraps them both in his cloak, and Theon listens to his heart as it eases its pace back to normal. He’d been terrified, Theon realizes with a pang of guilt as Robb’s shaking hands brush the hair from his eyes.

“I’m — I’m sorry, I —”

“Shh,” Robb burrows closer, shuffling so that he can rest Theon’s head on his chest. “Don’t apologize. It’s al — it’s alright. We’re both fine.” 

For a moment, neither of them say anything else. Robb runs fingers through Theon’s hair. Theon blinks back tears. The morning has turned to afternoon around them, warm and quiet.

“Can I be Robb now?” 

Theon laughs, but tears strangle the sound, and it comes out a sob. He nods. “You’re — you’re always Robb.”

A quiet sigh, like relief. Robb lifts him up by the sides of his face. 

“Was it — was it good?”

His face is so soft now. Eyes bright and honest and still so unbelievably _innocent_ as he looks up at Theon. Theon takes a shuddering breath. He’s afraid to blink and let the tears escape, but Robb frowns; he sees them anyway. 

“Did I hurt you?”

Theon shakes his head. “No.”

“But you’re crying — I thought —”

“Robb,” Theon’s voice cracks, and Robb flinches. Shaking his head, Theon presses a kiss to Robb’s mouth. “You could never hurt me, Robb. I — I’m alright. It’s — it’s all so… it’s all alright. I promise you.”

There’s no way to explain this feeling any further. He’s never felt so good in his life. His body is wrung sore and Robb is looking at him as if he’s made of gold. He feels his own heartbeat thundering along every inch of his skin, and right now, there is nothing. There is no one else in this world, no responsibilities, no lords or kings. Theon did not have to worry whether he was strong, or lordly, or commanding. That was not his concern here. When they were like this, those were Robb's worries. Theon only had to submit. All it is now is the two of them, and they will never have to be anyone or anything else. Theon never wants to leave this clearing. Robb doesn’t believe him, he can tell, shuddering breaths against his mouth as he pulls Theon instinctively into the kiss. He’s still fretting over him. Theon doubts there’s anything he could’ve said that would’ve kept him from worrying. But with Theon’s mouth on his, Robb lets himself be placated.

“You?” Theon asks softly against Robb’s mouth, “Was it — did it feel good for you?”

Another sigh falls from Robb’s mouth, and both hands pull him closer, knotting in his hair. Theon places a hand to his chest, feeling Robb’s heartbeat flutter under his fingers. His skin is so warm and alive under Theon’s touch that it robs the air from his lungs. Robb doesn’t speak, and for a moment Theon believes that’s all the answer he’ll get. It’s only fair, he supposes, the way he couldn’t answer Robb.

“Felt like mine,” Robb gasps finally. “You — you felt like mine.”

When Theon tries to pull back, just to look him in the eye, Robb keens and holds him close. He doesn’t want to think on what he said, just wants Theon to know. Blood running hot under his skin, Theon nods, sagging back into Robb’s hold. He _is_ Robb’s. That’s all he’s ever wanted to be. His ward. His hostage. His pet.

“No, Theon,” Robb purrs, rolling over to pin Theon to the fur. Theon hadn’t realized he was speaking aloud. “Not that. Just — just mine.”

He kisses like a claim, lying heavy across Theon’s warm and aching body. Even the way he holds him down is gentle, softer. He’d never hurt Theon when they’re like this. He’d never hurt anyone. Like this he is only ever careful, the good and tender lord. 

When Robb finally pulls back, he’s panting. His hands hold Theon’s chin to keep their eyes met, his thumb tracing absently over Theon’s jaw. It’s somehow more staggering, looking back at him now, than anything else they’ve done. Theon blinks, trying to look away. Stare past him, to the trees, or back toward the grass. His heart is pounding in his throat, and Robb is beautiful, eyes shining, hair drying wild in the wind and against his face. He smiles with a tender flash of nervousness, and Theon has never seen him look so perfect.

“Theon?” His voice is tense, honest. Theon can’t look away. He can’t move. Robb’s eyes seem to absorb him. A smile flickers over Robb’s face and he finishes, “You’ll have to thank Ros, for me.”

Relief washes over Theon and mixes with a panicked sort of disappointment. It bubbles out of him like a laugh, and Theon shoves him. “Oh, fuck off.”

Chuckling, Robb tugs him along as he falls onto his back, pulling Theon back over his chest. His eyes are crinkled with laughter as he cups Theon’s face. It’s still strange to be poised over Robb this way, but Robb doesn’t seem to think so, tugging Theon down by his curls to kiss the breath from him. When Theon moves, ache starts to sit heavy in his hips. Robb seems to realize, running his hands warm and soft over Theon’s skin, ribs to hips.

As Theon relaxes, Robb’s fingers finally settle on the scar on his shoulder. He watches Robb’s face as his fingers roll over the grooves in his skin, trying to read what he’s thinking. It’s a heavier burden now than it was even days ago. Theon will not be able to hide it forever. He does not want to. It’ll still be there at the end of winter. For a moment, he worries that Robb might regret taking a blade to him, but his nails roll careful over the scar. 

“It’s — it’s beautiful, on you.”

Robb’s voice is soft and low as he speaks, almost too quiet to hear. He told Theon once, after he’d marked him, that he was beautiful, and that he’d always think he was. Theon had been embarrassed then, but when he hears it now, it settles under his skin and squeezes at his heart. He bows his head and kisses Robb, nothing else to say.

The sun warms the fur draped over their nakedness, and the two of them let themselves doze as if they can. Their responsibilities will still be there for them come evening, but here, in this warm little clearing of the wolfswood, they can lay together without worries. No one will look for them, no one will find them. They can pretend, if just for a moment, that they can stay here forever. As their kisses slow, Theon shuts his eyes and settles his head against Robb’s chest, listening to the soft rhythm of his heart. 

Neither of them speak for some time. Wind brushes at the tree limbs above them, falls still and stirs again. Theon shivers, just slightly, and Robb pulls the cloak tighter around him. As time drags, Theon loses himself to the feeling of Robb’s fingers toying gently with his own as he holds them limp.

“Theon…?” Robb’s voice is soft and tender, his lips pressed to Theon’s hair as his fingers trace the sword on his back. After a moment, Robb continues in a whisper, “I am yours, Theon, and you are mine.”

Heart pounding, Theon freezes. At a loss, he pretends to be asleep, working to keep his breathing even. Robb’s heartbeat is thudding against his ear, panicked, but Theon can’t move. Robb can’t know he heard. If he lets himself give a response, he’ll never be able to leave. Robb can love him here, and Theon can love him back, but once they go back to Winterfell, Robb has to be the heir and Theon has to be the well-behaved hostage of his family. If Robb knows he heard, if Theon answers, they can never go back to what they need to be. Robb would never let them.

Fingers roll through Theon’s hair. A long sigh leaves Robb’s chest. He’s starting to let himself believe that Theon’s fallen asleep. He presses a kiss to the crown of Theon’s head. After a moment, Robb dozes off as well.

Eventually, Theon will wake him. He knows he has to. But for now, Theon listens to him breathe, the long, steady in-and-out of his breath. He shuts his eyes and pretends, if only for a moment, that they can stay this way. His voice doesn’t carry, but his lips form awkwardly around the words: _“Now and always.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my first Optional Ending.
> 
> That's.... all the warning you really get.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s possible Robb realizes his mistake, because he never repeats to Theon what he whispered in the wolfswood. Though Theon can see it in his eyes plain as day every time they steal time together. Theon wonders if it’s as obvious on his own face, when he looks at Robb. He hopes it isn’t, but thinks perhaps it might be, when Robb’s need to be gentle lasts longer and longer each time.

Once the royals arrive in Winterfell, they have no choice but to no longer lay together. Being caught by the king or a Lannister is far too dangerous to tempt such fate. 

Their unspoken agreement only crumbles once, on the night Bran falls. Robb comes into Theon’s room and sobs into his neck until dawn brushes the sky. Still, it’s different. Robb asks for nothing while curled in Theon’s arms, and Theon only holds him in silence. 

Sometimes, Theon can see it in Robb’s face, the catch of a memory. The morning Lord Stark rides south with Robb’s sisters, Jon insists on leaving for the Wall. Robb tries to make him stay, just for a few nights, but Jon refuses. 

“It would be too much to ask of your lady mother,” Jon tells him solemnly. “Everything she’s going through with Bran, and with Father and the girls departing…”

He trails off. Theon understands, but Robb pouts. 

Shortly after they bid farewell to Lord Stark and the girls, Robb convinces Theon to help him see Jon off, and Theon acts much more put on than he is. After everything, being civil to Jon is not so terrible. They ride with him to the Winterfell gates, and Robb and Jon both dismount to embrace. Theon watches awkwardly from his own horse as they jape at each other with shaky smiles.

Before Jon goes back to his horse, he looks up at Theon.

“Greyjoy,” he says with almost suspicious kindness, “a word?”

Robb is shocked, and Theon pretends to be. Instead, he only feels a cold wrench of fear as he dismounts. Robb doesn’t move, and Jon smirks at him. “Alone, if you don’t mind, Stark.”

Theon watches Robb curiously give them space, and tries not to worry it may be the last time he sees him at all before the bastard puts a knife in his heart. After all this time, maybe it’s the only reason Jon wishes to take the black. 

Once Robb is out of sight, Jon smiles at him. He’s always been such a sullen brat, the smile looks strange on his face. Theon cocks his head.

“Snow?”

“You’re all he has left now, Greyjoy. You understand that?”

Feeling oddly scorned, Theon nods.

“Take care of him. With Bran — his mother isn’t…”

Theon nods again. Lady Stark has not been well since Bran’s fall. She’s not slept in days and barely eats. With Lord Stark and the girls preparing to leave for King’s Landing the past few days, the castle’s duties have fallen entirely to Robb. He’s been exhausted, Theon has noticed. 

“I — I’m trying.”

It’s odd, being so honest with the bastard. Theon thinks it may be liberating, if it were anyone else who knew.

“You are,” Jon says with a smirk. “I trust even you have the decency to treat him well when times are this difficult.”

“I would’ve thought by now even _you_ would trust me a little, Snow,” Theon grumbles sourly.

“I do,” Jon says plainly. Theon’s mouth falls open, and Jon moves to remount his horse. “Don’t make me regret that.”

Theon watches him remount and leave after his father before riding back to meet Robb inside the castle grounds.

“What did he want to speak with you about?” Robb asks curiously.

Feeling guilty, Theon shrugs. “Nothing good. He told me to keep an eye on you,” he says with as much honesty as he can manage. With a bit of a smile he adds, “Keep you out of trouble.”

Robb laughs at that. “And what was he thinking appointing _you_ to such a task?” 

Theon shoves him with a snort.

Trouble finds them soon enough, when they receive word that Lord Stark has been taken prisoner in just four moons time since he arrived in King’s Landing. Robb is frightened, Theon knows he is, but Theon knows it can’t stop him from doing what is right. It’s not often Robb needs Theon’s counsel, not when he has his noble father and wise mother to speak to. But his father is imprisoned and his mother has ridden south. Maester Luwin is too timid a man to help Robb with war counsel. But Greyjoys are known warriors, always at the ready when war strikes. Theon can help him now, perhaps not as he’s grown used to, but help him still. Robb respects his opinion, he knows, and Theon would rather die fighting in a war on King’s Landing than let Lord Stark rot in a dungeon beneath the Red Keep. When they take Bran riding on the saddle the Lannister imp had designed for him, he tries to convince Robb what should be done, but it’s not as he expects at all. Instead of taking Theon’s counsel, Robb only snaps at him.

“It’s not _your_ house.”

It burns like rage under Theon’s skin, the scar at his shoulder twinging as if trying to dig itself out of his flesh. His throat constricts, and he flinches, afraid for Robb to see him wounded. But Robb doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s said had any weight, jumping to his feet when he realizes Bran has ridden from their line of sight.

“Where’s Bran?” he asks, voice panicked, and Theon stands, starting away from him.

“Don’t know,” he bites, but his voice falls flat in his ears. He sounds weak, hurt. “It’s not my house.”

He storms away then, petulant as a child. He feels sick again, the same lightheaded panic he hasn’t felt since Robb had offered Theon to his family. Tears sting his eyes, but he wipes them away, furious with himself for his sensitivity. It’s been years since he’s felt this — unwelcome in the North. Unwanted. He scratches distractedly at his shoulder, through his doublet. The clearing where they laid together years ago isn’t far from here. Theon had thought it when Robb led the way with his own horse. He wonders, now, if Robb even noticed. Without realizing it, Theon finds himself wandering, tracking the hoof prints of Bran’s little yearling. Perhaps it’s not his House. Bran is still his brother.

In the night, once little Bran is safe in bed, Robb comes to him.

It’s strange that he would, now. With his father south with half his northern men, and his mother still in the Eyrie with her sister, they have been too busy manning a half-empty castle to steal time away. Theon would never have assumed Robb would want to, after the events of the day have drained them both. But when Theon opens his door, Robb is staring pitifully at his feet. He rolls his eyes, unmoved.

“What is it, Stark?”

When Robb looks up at him, Theon sees the weight on his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. He’s so tired, and scared, and impossibly young. Theon feels guilty for being short with him.

“I’m sorry,” Robb says quietly, and Theon feels a tension in his chest go light. “The way — the way I acted, after you helped with the wildling bandits. It was unworthy of me.”

Theon’s heart sinks again. He is not sorry, it seems, for what he’d said to him before that.

There’s no reason for him to be, Theon realizes. What Robb had said is not untrue, and Theon is still a captive of Winterfell. He is not Robb’s equal, not here. He never really has been. 

“It’s fine,” he manages. Robb’s panicked babbling after Theon killed the wildling bandit had angered him in the moment, but their heat had not lasted the same. “You were shaken, they had your little brother. I understand.”

It stings, that Robb’s face brightens at his acceptance, as if there’s nothing more he wants. He does not recall anything else that may have been hurtful. He had not otherwise spoken out of line. Not as Theon had, before they’d lost Bran.

Robb takes a step forward, into Theon’s chambers, but Theon tenses. He’s not sure that he wants this now, so soon after Robb had told him his unworthiness without touching him, without their game, like it was nothing to him. As if it were true. He doesn’t move from his doorway, and Robb looks at him curiously.

“The maester is still awake, little lord,” Theon lies quickly. “Best not tempt fate tonight.”

Robb believes him without question, and looks over his shoulder before kissing Theon on the cheek and leaving for his own chambers. It helps the tension still straining in Theon’s chest, but he falls asleep restless and angry with himself. In his sleep, he dreams of Bran screaming, and blood drenching his hands.

By morning, Robb is so kind and gentle with him that what he never apologized for slips entirely from Theon’s mind.

It’s not long after that they’re forced to take a host of men south. One night, Robb reaches out and lingers his hand on Theon’s shoulder, the one etched with his father’s greatsword. His eyes are bright as he thanks Theon for his loyalty, and Theon bites his tongue to keep from answering _“Of course, m’lord.”_

Instead, he nods, and manages a smile.

It more of the same, when they reach the Riverlands. There’s no time to think of anything other than war as they prepare to fight and convince southern men to fight with them. They hardly have time to sleep. When Lady Stark joins them in the Great Hall at Riverrun, Theon is certain it will be no different. They’re in the south with Robb’s southern mother. The Seven are watching them, now. It’s still there, in Robb’s eyes during the day, but each night, Robb stays up conspiring and planning with his mother, if not with all his men. He has not been alone with Theon since they rode south.

The evening that Lady Stark returns from The Twins with the arrangements for how they can cross Walder Frey’s bridge, Theon can feel the idea of a marriage pull taut in Robb’s shoulders. He tries to laugh, to ease the tension, but Robb only glares at him. There’s hurt in Robb’s eyes when Theon smiles. Not anger, but heartbreak. He had let himself believe, Theon realizes, that he wouldn’t ever have to think of such things, the foolish boy. He is a lord, and his marriage, it seems, was meant to be his own decision.

After nightfall, Robb comes to Theon’s tent. He looks resolute, and Theon thinks nothing of it when he lets Robb inside.

“Is something wrong, little lord?” Theon asks. He’d been here earlier, with a scroll of overland strategies. Theon looks back to see if he may have left it behind. “Did you forget any —”

A hand latches hard in Theon’s hair, rearing him back until his throat is held prone.

“On your knees. Now.”

It’s the first words out of Robb’s mouth, and Theon drops to his knees instantly. The rush hits him like a wave, and air leaves him in a gasp. Robb’s hand tightens in his hair, standing just behind him. Shaking, Theon drops to all fours without being told. At Robb’s feet this way, he feels as if he’s taken Grey Wind’s place. Robb has told him nothing, but Theon can already feel his own cock swelling against his leg.

“Look at me.”

Keening, Theon looks up at Robb over his shoulder. His eyes glint in the low candlelight. Robb’s hand falls slack in Theon’s curls to pet them back, away from his eyes.

“Are you jealous? Of the Frey girl?”

“Of course, m’lord,” Theon answers without hesitation.

“I haven’t even met her,” Robb says, a teasing scold in his voice. “Never laid eyes on her in my life. I don’t even know which one it will be. It doesn’t matter which.” It seems to please him, to know Theon’s envy. He cups Theon’s face, holding his chin to meet his eyes. “Show me, Greyjoy. Show me how — how much you want it… to be you.”

Groaning, Theon crawls forward on his hands and knees, nodding fervently. Hands shaking, he unlaces Robb’s breeches, leaning forward to take his cock in his mouth. Robb whimpers when Theon’s mouth closes around his cock. It’s still soft at first, but Theon feels it stiffening in his mouth, and his eyes roll back as he sucks him down. He missed this, the weight on his tongue, the taste of sweat and sex. He blinks his focus to Robb’s face, watching his head fall back.

“Perfect —” he whimpers, fucking down Theon’s throat. “Gods, that’s — that’s it.”

The praise rolls hot down Theon’s back, and he sucks greedily at Robb, needing the taste of him. There is nothing he wants more than this, serving his lord as he should. The Frey girl won’t do this, not as he does. She won’t die for the pleasure of keeping his cock warm. She won’t feel the pure and perfect bliss that Theon does as Robb forces her over his cock. His jaw burns, out of practice after so long. Tears stream from his eyes as Robb’s cock fucks down his throat. 

When Robb comes, it’s with his fist shoved in his mouth, biting his own knuckle. Theon is mesmerized by the taste on his tongue, lapping helplessly at Robb’s cock long after he’s finished, until Robb is forced to shove Theon off of him.

“Gods,” Robb whispers, voice hoarse and panting. “Look at you. Barely more than a moon without it and you’re so greedy for my cock I have to rip it from your mouth.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Theon answers dazedly.

Robb is holding him steady by the hair, and it takes Theon a moment to realize he has knelt down to his eye level.

“Tell me, Greyjoy,” Robb whispers, mouth pressed to Theon’s ear. “Tell me how you’ll miss it — how you’ll sit outside my chambers at night and hope I have some left for you after my lady wife Frey has taken to bed.”

Keening, Theon’s mind reels at the thought. “Yes — yes, m’lord.” 

Robb would never do such a thing to his wife, whether he loved her or not. Once he’s wed, Theon knows better. He can wait outside Robb’s chambers until his death, but Robb would never dishonor her. But it doesn’t matter, not really. Now, he is not married. Now, Theon can pretend.

“Please keep me,” Theon whines against Robb’s neck, shivering when he feels soft leather of his glove wrap around his cock. Light bursts in front of his eyes. “Please, I’ll — I’ll be good. Good and — loyal ward. Wait my turn. I’ll be — good —”

It should embarrass him, how quickly he comes into Robb’s hand, but secretly, the shame only excites him. Once he’s done, Robb lifts his hand to Theon’s mouth, and Theon cleans his own seed from Robb’s glove.

“No lady will ever look as much the part as you do, mouth around my prick.”

The words make Theon tremble. Still mindless and heady from his orgasm, he sucks Robb’s fingers into his mouth. He’s good this way. Useful. Pretty. When Robb pulls his fingers away, Theon whines.

“No,” he whimpers, mouth hanging open, as he gropes for Robb’s hand. “Please…”

“Shh,” Robb gets to his feet, stumbling back onto Theon’s cot. “Come here, you pathetic thing. Look at you, it’s been far too long.” 

When Robb holds out his hand, Theon crawls to it on all fours, mouth open and expectant for his fingers again. Instead, Robb takes hold of Theon’s chin and leads him back to his flaccid cock.

“That’s it, take it. C’mon.”

He doesn’t feel worthy, as he closes his mouth around Robb’s cock. He knows what it’s like. Overstimulated. Too much, too long. He tries to be gentle, but once Robb’s cock sits heavy on his tongue, Theon can’t help himself, moaning heedlessly against Robb’s skin. Robb lets out a full-body shudder, fingers buried in Theon’s hair. The noise that leaves his mouth is pained, desperate. It shouldn’t, but it spurns Theon to take him to the hilt, gagging as Robb’s soft cock starts to twitch with a ghost of interest.

“You’re still — mine, do you understand?” Robb growls, hips starting to jerk against Theon’s mouth, twisting in some sort of catch between bliss and agony. “ _Gods,_ I —” He shivers, sagging forward, curling over Theon as if protecting him. “You’re still — my property. I’ve — _fuck_ — marked you. Mine — you’re _mine._ ”

Theon moans, bobbing his head back and forth over Robb’s cock in a helpless nod. Robb can keep him like this. It’s not dishonorable, to keep him. He’s not anything but a hole for his lord, he remembers now. It had been so long, he’d almost forgotten. But he is not a man. Not ironborn. Not a lord. A faithful, northern hole.

When Robb finally rips him away, his breath is tearing from his lungs. It takes Theon a moment to recall where he is, what they were doing. It’s strange now, the way the fog settles on his mind. When he looks at Robb, he’s shaking, tears in his eyes. It’s hard to focus, but Theon is present enough to know it’s not right. Theon reaches for him, dazed. Robb stands, too quickly, stumbling a little, jerking away from Theon’s hand. Theon stares at him, struck. 

“Robb —” His voice is raw, too quiet.

“We’ll — we’ll attack the Lannister army in a week’s time,” he says, as if he means to say an hour. “Get some rest.”

Theon watches him leave his tent from on his knees, and pretends not to see Robb drag an arm across his eyes.


	15. Chapter 15

Robb’s mood lifts, when they return to Riverrun with the Kingslayer. He doesn’t come to Theon in the night — the rest of his men and his mother are up so late celebrating the victory that they could never steal the time alone — but he does kiss him with lips that taste like wine, pressing him against a tree tucked away in the woods. 

“You’re amazing,” he tells Theon in a drunken whisper.

Theon smiles at him and lets himself forget there will ever be a Frey girl in his bed.

News of Lord Stark’s execution arrives soon after. It feels somehow both like days and years. Theon is seated beside him, when Robb reads the scroll, but so is his mother, and Theon cannot hold him. Instead, he places a gentle hand on Robb’s shoulder and tries to think of what to say, but all that comes to mind are the things Lord Stark would say to his children and to Theon. All he thinks, looking at the scroll shaking in Robb’s hands, is what he used to tell them every time news arrived at Winterfell. _Dark wings, dark words._

He cries alone, as he assumes Robb must. Lords do not let others see their weakness. Or at least they are not meant to. He wonders, suddenly, if he should go to Robb, once the men and Lady Stark have gone to bed. Theon is scared, wrung exhausted, and has never felt so alone, but Robb must feel all that as well. He must suffer it far more than Theon does.

There are no guardsmen outside the king’s tent that night. Robb had sent them away. Only Grey Wind guards the King in the North while he mourns. The direwolf lays before the entrance, massive head resting on its paws. Grey Wind watches him with keen eyes, muzzle quivering, but does not bar him entrance. Theon hears Robb crying as he approaches the tent, and Theon has to sink his teeth into the inside of his cheek to keep from running to him. They are men grown, now. Much sooner than they ever expected to be. It will only anger him, if Theon treats him as if he’s weak. He looks at his feet as he enters. It’s dark, and he hears rather than sees Robb sit up.

“What —?” There’s a shuffle, and a moment’s hesitation. Light fills the small tent as Robb lights his oil lamp. “Greyjoy?”

Theon isn’t sure if Robb is relieved, confused or angry, but at the sound of his house name, he inclines his head.

“I came to see to you, m’lord.”

Robb scoffs, watery. “Get the fuck out of my tent.”

“Please —” Theon whispers, even as he steps back, toward the opening of the tent. “I wanted to — Robb, I had to see that you’re alright.”

He isn’t, Theon knows that, but he has to do what he can. His heart is a stone under his ribs and he can’t breathe. Robb’s face is tracked with tears, eyes red and curls slick against his temples. He’s been left alone for what could have been hours, by now. Theon just wants to help, even though there’s nothing he can do.

Still, Robb’s eyes narrow on Theon’s face. “And what will you do to help me, Greyjoy? Just suck my cock and hope that makes it better?”

Theon shakes his head, stung. Tonight, Robb is broken and small. He will need something else, now.

“No, m’lord.” It feels strange, to address Robb this way on his feet. He kneels. Robb glares at him. “Treat me as you would the Lannisters, m’lord. If it please you.”

At that, Robb sits up a little straighter, planting his feet on the dirt beneath them. “I want nothing less than to kill the Lannisters, Greyjoy. If not for my sisters I’d start with the fucking Kingslayer and work my way south for the rest. I want to murder all of them. Each and every one.”

Tears sting Theon’s eyes. He’s never heard Robb speak this way, not about anyone, not ever. But he nods, blinking the tears back as he bears his throat. He’ll die here, if it will ease Robb’s suffering.

“I know you would, m’lord.”

A sob tears from Robb’s chest. He gets to his feet and storms at Theon, grabbing a ragged handful of Theon’s hair and ripping him upward, tall on his knees.

“What is _wrong with you,_ you sick, spineless beast? You’d let me do it? You’d let me kill you? _Why?_ ” Theon shakes his head, unsure, but Robb isn’t truly asking. He’s crying harder now, Theon can hear it, but he keeps his eyes on the dirt at his knees. “You _disgust me._ What kind of broken thrall are you, that you’d let another man kill you for his pleasure? What is — what is _wrong_ with you?”

“I don’t — I don’t know, m’lord,” Theon admits quietly.

“ _Shut up!_ ” His voice is too loud, and he lowers it, afraid to wake someone. “Shut up, you useless — what good will you do me? What pleasure would I get from killing you? You aren’t a Lannister. You’re not even a lord.”

“I know, m’lord.” 

“You’re just some — some _sniveling craven_.”

Theon nods, bowing lower. His eyes are on the dirt. “I know, m’lord. I am not — not enough, to help you, but please… Let me try, at least.” 

When Robb hits him hard across the face, relief washes over Theon so deeply that it doesn’t feel like pain. 

“Gods, thank you, m’lord.”

“Shut up,” Robb snarls, “Don’t speak — don’t —” His hand cracks over Theon’s face again, and Theon’s eyes fall closed. “This will not help me. This will not _fix_ anything. You’re nothing, do you understand? Nothing. Just like you said. I could — I could kill you right here and there would be _nothing._ ”

“I know, m’lord,” Theon says automatically.

“I’ve killed men before, with — with _nothing._ Ripped them apart with my teeth and ate their flesh. It was nothing. The taste of them —” Theon is shaking now. He’s not sure what Robb is saying, any longer. “I could do the same now, and you —” 

His nails catch Theon’s face like claws when he strikes him again, and Theon feels the sting of split flesh on his lip.

“I’ve already tasted you. Sweeter than the others, mayhaps, but still nothing more than blood and flesh.”

Theon dares to look at him, but the lamp casts such an eerie, unfamiliar shadow on his face that he drops his gaze again. As he stares into the dirt, blood drips from his cracked lip and lands red in the dust. He’s scared, he realizes. Not of Robb, but for him. He sounds as if he’s lost his mind. Tears well in his eyes and land in the dirt, beside his blood.

“M’lord —”

“I told you _not to speak_ ,” Robb snarls. 

Theon expects another slap, but instead Robb’s kicks hard at Theon’s chest, and sends him reeling backward. He hits the dirt hard, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush. He scrambles to try and stand again, but Robb slams his heel into Theon’s ribs, and he crumples, gasps as the air leaves his lungs. The pain is blinding and sudden. On his elbows, Theon heaves to regain his breath, but Robb steps on his chest and forces him down flat onto the earth. 

Sharp and quiet above him, Theon hears, “Keep your bloody mouth shut, you useless thrall.”

Robb kicks him again, square in the ribs. Theon clenches his jaw, swallowing a groan. He shuts his eyes and covers his head with his arms. Pain rockets up his chest, ebbing and sweeping over him. It isn't a punishment this time, it's just something Robb needs. Another service he can fulfill. 

The fog still settles over his mind. Different, now. Less like something peaceful and safe, and more like relief. A cool, healing balm spread over fevered skin. Another blow connects to his abdomen and Theon bucks and curls on himself. His feet bare, Robb kicks with his heel, over and over, digging it hard into Theon’s ribs as he struggles to breathe.

When Robb drops to his knees, he crawls over Theon, bracketing his waist with his legs. He shakes him, a watery gasp leaving his mouth, and Theon opens his eyes, assuming it’s what he’d ask for, were he able to speak.

Theon’s vision is spotting from pain, the flame in the lamp not bright enough to cast full light on Robb’s face, but he sees him then for what feels like the first time since the news of his father’s execution. Tears track glittering down his cheeks and his eyes are wide and burning. He’s so scared, and Theon’s heart breaks in his chest.

He doesn’t think, and the words fall from his mouth before he can stop them, “It’s alright, m’lord.”

Robb doesn’t insist on his silence again. Sobbing openly, he wraps his hands around his throat. 

Theon’s eyes fall shut as his grip tightens. Thoughts begin bleeding together before disappearing. As the last of his air leaves him, he gasps, eyes snapping open. Robb looks broken and terrified, and panic enters Theon’s blood as he starts to fade grey before him.

Instinctively, Theon reaches for where Robb’s grip is strangling him, but Robb doesn’t release him, clenching tighter. His hands are shaking, and for an instant, Theon doesn’t believe he’ll stop, thinks that this is how he’ll die.

In a single, dazed heartbeat, Theon hopes it will be enough for Robb. 

No voice leaves his mouth when Theon’s lips work around the helpless plea of _m’lord._ He doesn’t even expect Robb to notice. But then Robb’s hands fall slack, fingers shaking, and air rushes into Theon’s lungs so suddenly that the world turns white. He doesn’t speak as he gasps and pants, and neither does Robb. When Theon swallows, he tastes blood. The tent is silent, save their panicked breathing.

“Is that — what you wanted?” Robb asks, voice is trembling, and Theon wonders if he’d made a mistake. “Is this — you _want_ this?”

Theon swallows again, the sharp tang of blood in his mouth. “I want —” His words come out a rasp, and he cannot manage clearing his throat to harden them. Coughing burns, and tastes of copper. “I want to help — however I — I can, m’lord.”

“You want to — be beaten and strangled? Does that — does that make you _happy?_ ”

“If it please you,” Theon says against sore ribs, “then yes, m’lord.”

“I am,” Robb answers suddenly, his back going straight, voice tight. “I am your lord. You belong to me, now. And I’m the one — I am —”

Theon reaches for him, wrapping his fingers around his wrist. “I know, Robb.”

Robb crumbles, sobs shaking him in an instant as he falls against Theon, curling weakly into him. Theon wraps his arms over his back, holding him tight, like he used to when they were children and Robb would find him after a nightmare. Robb’s tears slide hot and wet over Theon’s neck as he throws his arms around him, pulling Theon close as if he’ll fade away in an instant.

“I’m sorry,” he gags, shivering in Theon’s arms. His hands pull at Theon’s tunic, burrowing closer. “Please — please, gods. What — what have I done? I’m so — I’m so sorry.”

Theon isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for. Theon had begged for this. He runs his hand through Robb’s hair and rocks him against his chest, careful and warm. This may be what he needs. Theon will give this, too. He nods dully, and tucks Robb against his chest.

“It’s alright,” Theon whispers, “you don’t — you don’t have to be sorry.”

Shivering, Robb rolls tender fingers to the split in Theon’s lip. It’s stopped bleeding by now, but the touch stabs. “I’ll take care of you,” he says softly, “I’ll always take — such good care of you. I swear it, from this day on.”

He looks smaller, suddenly. Like he had when they were boys, when Theon still towered over him, and Robb followed him like a duckling does its mother. He moves to return Robb’s head to his chest, but Robb resists, breath hitching.

“You’re mine now, and when I — when I die —”

“I will be with you,” Theon answers abruptly. He can’t think of any other outcome, not now. “If the gods do not take my life with yours, it will be soon after.”

It’s not what Robb had planned to say. It shakes him, that Theon would be so frank. He falls silent, the shuddering of his breath the only response. Perhaps he had only meant to have Theon sent home, in the event of his death, but the Iron Islands are no home any longer. Theon thinks of the scar on his back, the bittersweetness it has now. He’s of the North. Now and always.

As Robb’s tears die down, Theon picks him up and leads him toward his cot, but Robb snatches his wrist before he can walk away, and pulls him forward.

“Stay, please.”

Theon does, crawls in beside him. The cot creaks at the extra weight, but Robb clings to him, keeping Theon from changing his mind. They lay slotted together in silence, Robb curled over Theon’s back, his arms tucked in between them. They aren’t lying together long before Theon feels Robb start to cry again, his shoulders shaking and head bowed. He reaches back for Robb’s hand, but Robb doesn’t let him, slapping him away. He tugs down the neckline of Theon’s tunic to reveal the scar of his father’s greatsword, that he’d done by his own hand, still etched into Theon’s back. It’s faded white by now, pale enough that Theon wonders if Robb can even see it in the dim light of the candle. Robb’s fingertips brush against it, gentle and shaking as they trace over the line of the greatsword.

“I’m so — sorry,” Robb whispers.

Heart pounding, Theon reaches back to pry his arm away, holding Robb’s hand to his chest. Robb’s fingers are trembling, and Theon squeezes his hand tight. The last thing he wants is for Robb to regret marking him.

“We’ll get it back, Robb,” he says with far more calm than he feels. “We’ll get it all back. Along with your sisters. Everything of the North will be — in its rightful place, in the end. I promise.”

Robb draws a shaky breath. Theon feels him nod, as he rests his forehead against Theon’s back. 

Theon waits for hours until Robb’s jagged breaths fall even before he creeps back to his own tent. He does not sleep, that night.

Days later, Theon’s body still aches when he stretches. He covers the bruises along his ribs easily with leathers and furs, but likes to touch them, when he’s alone. They feel alive. 

_Your Grace_ is different from _m’lord,_ but Robb still stops breathing, when Theon whispers it while they’re alone in Robb’s tent. Theon teases him, tells him it’s not so bad with a wink, and Robb shivers, just barely.

They do not lay together again.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s still the dead of night when Theon readies a mount to take him to Seaguard. It’ll be days before he gets there, and he’ll need to take a ship to the Islands as soon as possible. He’s terrified to leave Robb, even more terrified to go home, to see his father. He would never admit such a thing to Robb, not when he’s counting on him, but he stalls, and wanders into Robb’s tent to bid him farewell.

When Robb looks up from his battle map at the sound of his entrance, the air leaves Theon’s lungs. There is weight on his shoulders that Theon has never seen, and the hint of a beard that Robb has simply been too busy to take a razor to. But he’s still Robb, still a good and gentle lord.

“I — I’m going to set for Seaguard,” Theon manages hoarsely. “The sooner I get there —”

“The sooner you can come back.”

It isn’t what Theon was going to say, but he nods anyway. Robb drops the large iron marker from his hand and stands in front of Theon in three determined strides. He still stands taller than Theon — moreso now than ever, it seems — but his face is no different than it had been years ago. Theon can almost pretend they’re still in the North, back at Winterfell, that this war isn’t happening. And gods, Theon would give anything for that. It isn’t like the songs or the stories. There is no glory in this, no gleaming armor in the end. It’s only been pain and fear and crippling agony. But he can’t admit he’s frightened, or that he wants to go home — not to the one he hasn’t seen since he was barely more than a babe, but the one he’s made, the one with Robb.

“Your Grace —”

Robb interrupts him, snatching handfuls of Theon’s hair and ripping him forward, into a kiss. Theon melts into it instantly, falling into Robb’s chest. It’s been too long since Robb has kissed him. It feels like years. His kiss is different now, assured and overwhelming. Even just with his hands holding Theon’s face, he dissolves, lost in it. Theon forgets where he is, forgets where he needs to be. He needs to be here, now. He kisses back with a gasp, his heart fluttering in his chest. They seem so much older now than they did when it started. Too old to call it a game, any longer.

When Robb pulls away, Theon whimpers, hands reaching up of their own accord to touch him.

“You’ll come back to me safely, Greyjoy,” he says firmly.

It’s an order, and Theon nods. Robb looks suddenly so fragile that Theon’s feet feel nailed to the floor. He’s terrified to leave. Robb will shatter if Theon leaves him to go through this alone. He’ll shatter, and Theon will as well. They’re too small an army to face King’s Landing without the Greyjoy fleet, but for just an instant, Theon doesn’t care. They’re no army at all without Robb Stark, the King in the North, and Robb wants him by his side.

“I’ll — I’ll come back, Your Grace.”

There’s a flicker of a smile on Robb’s face, then. The leather of his glove is soft against Theon’s jaw, holding his eyes steady. He knows, suddenly, what’s coming, but he can’t look away. He doesn’t want to stop it. 

“You will,” Robb tells him, eyes pinning him still. “I know you will. Because I’m yours, and you are mine.”

Air leaves Theon so quick it makes him dizzy, and tears sting his eyes. “Robb —”

“Please,” Robb whispers, the grip tightening on his jaw. “You — you told me once —”

“Now and always,” Theon interrupts, voice shaking. 

Said now, softly, out of earshot of any of the other men, it is not the promise of a sword. It’s instead more like the vows he’s heard in the stories Sansa likes, the ones betrothed pairs say together in front of the Seven. _From this day until the end of my days._ The Seven would not approve of them this way, but the words are honest enough for the old gods. He wishes suddenly — foolishly — that they were tucked away in a godswood.

The Frey girl would never have to know. It could be their secret, just as their game had been.

“We’ll be kings of our own, soon,” Robb mutters. “When I make the Iron Islands their own. I’ll return them to you. We’ll — we’ll be kings together, and no one — no one can tell us that we can’t…”

Nodding, Theon rocks up onto the balls of his feet, flinging his arms around Robb’s shoulders. When they’re kings, the Frey girl will make Robb heirs, but they can make their own rules — like the ironborn do. The Seven don’t matter to the Islands, and won’t matter in the North, once Robb rules. They can be safe, one day. Theon can still be Robb’s, when they’re kings.

“I was yours before,” he says without thinking as he pulls away. The tears are in his voice now. He wasn’t supposed to do this here. He feels so childish, but he’s too panicked to care any longer. “Even before, when we were boys… I’ve — I’ve always been —”

Robb’s mouth is on his again, swallowing his words. The kiss tastes of salt, and Theon cups his face, a discreet attempt to dry his tears.

The kiss is so desperate and needy and _helpless._ Robb is not a king here, not now. He is not leader of an army. He’s just a boy, wounded and alone and so, so scared. Theon feels his chest pull tight, tears stinging his eyes. Leaving him now will kill them both, he’s sure of it. His heart will break before his mount makes it ten paces down the River Road. His hands are trembling and his heart is in his throat, already threatening to shatter.

“I can’t — I can’t do this now,” Theon whispers against his mouth when Robb doesn’t pull away. Even as he says it, he stands on his toes, dragging Robb closer. He knows he can’t, but he’d give anything to stay — to be with him one more time. Robb says nothing, but tugs at the sleeves of Theon’s tunic, holding him still. “Robb, I have to go.”

With a shuddering breath, Robb drops his forehead against Theon’s, hands nested in his hair.

“This will — this will be the last time you leave my side, Greyjoy,” he says suddenly. There’s a tug on his arm, and Robb’s hand splays over Theon’s shoulder blade. “When you return to me, we will never be parted again.”

It’s foolish to say. They are at war. They may never see each other again after this night. But Theon lets himself believe it, because the idea of anything else is terrifying. “Until the end of my days.”

Robb isn’t expecting it. That look of open surprise is on his face again, the eyes of the fifteen-year-old boy who let himself believe this was all a game, once. He pulls back to study Theon’s face. Tears are in his eyes, and Theon drops his gaze, embarrassed.

The hand on his shoulder presses tight against his doublet, and Theon looks up. 

“Until the end of my days,” Robb repeats with a shaking smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the epilogue is... canon compliant. So. Optional ending number 2!
> 
> Let's leave it here and pretend nothing bad ever happens!


	17. (Entirely Optional) Epilogue

Years later, when he belongs to someone else, he begs to keep the scar like a sword on his back. Even as he begs, he can't remember why. It had been important once, but that’s all he knows of it any longer. He pleads again and again for his master to leave it in his skin. But his master has taken his fingers, his cock, his name. His master has taken everything he has ever asked to keep. It will be nothing, for his master to take this, too. He weeps and twists under the knife when his master flays the skin from his shoulder, not for the pain; he no longer feels it for such small things. He’s not sure why he cries at all.

Once it’s torn away, his master holds it in front of him, laughing. It’s not done in the skilled hand of his master that put it there, which is why it could not stay. His skin is only for his master, now. He hasn’t seen the scar since being reborn, not really, but for an instant, the sight of it calms him. A lopsided sword lined white against the chunk of bloody flesh. 

When he was someone else, he had asked for it, he knows. It had been given to him a lifetime ago, when he was a man allowed to want. He reaches for it, just to touch. He almost remembers something. A soft whisper he nearly recognizes, breathing in his ear _It’s beautiful on you._ Tears sting his eyes, but he bows his head. There is no reason for him to weep, and his master will react poorly to his tears. 

He begs for the mercy of shutting his eyes. Instead, his master holds his chin still and makes him watch as he feeds the flayed skin to the hounds.

As he watches the dogs snap the flesh apart in their mouths, he thinks he should have offered to eat it instead. It could still be part of him, then. He could have kept the scar shaped like a sword, if he’d swallowed it himself. 

His master would have never allowed such a thing. He remembers — somehow — that he doesn’t deserve to keep it, anyway. He is not the man it was gifted to.

Still, the pain of losing it hurts worse than his master’s blades ever have.

That night, he curls amongst the hounds in the kennels, trembling and sobbing as they lick the blood from his back. His master had not called for him to stay in his chambers, tonight. He must have no interest in using him any further. As the hounds bury into him to get warm, he wishes they would eat what remains of him. 

As he finally drifts off, he dreams of being tied to an execution block. It isn’t the chilling grin of his master standing over him. It’s a gentle face with soft auburn curls and eyes like the ocean, and when the blade swings down on his neck, there’s peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, everyone.


End file.
